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Thit itam h filmad at tha raduction ratio chackad balow/ 

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1QX UX 18X 






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pramiAra paga qui comporta una amprainta 
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Un daa symbolas suivants ipparaitra sur la 
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Las cartaa. planchaa. tablaaux. ate. pauvant atra 
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Lorsqua It doeumant ast trop grand pour ttra 
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da I'angla supAriaur gaucha. da gaucha a droiia. 
at da haut an baa. an pranant la nombra 
d'imagas n^caaaaira. Laa diagrammaa suivants 
lllustrant la mdthoda. 

1 2 3 









1^ 1^ IIJ4 


SS"- 16S3 Eost Main Street 

=f^ RochesWf. Ne* York 14G09 USA 

■^S (716) *e2 - OJOO - Phone 

^S (716) 26B-M89-Fa" 


i^hdlt ^aaJUi 














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sack of meal. Old Sullivan ^ '?''° '''^''^ ^y a 

was the manner in which Zs^ot hi "''^ ^''^"* 

Simpaon, who had signed TZ ^ ^""''^ "*"« '°- 
'^ay to the sieepinT al!? '■'^"*'' ""'^ ^*'-« «» Ws 
his purplish facnowaT r^'''"'''' '"' '"'"^^ 
shaken by the Wow k *'"' '^^'^ ''-n 

the derelicts who dTifted T r^"^' ^''^" ""-^ ^^ 
he wondered wheth^ the ^^ " '?"" '' '^^"««' 
amusement. Also he I '^ t-' """^'^ ^"™* W"" 

there conld come "; nTo^r "' "" "^"*^' ''^^ t^"** 
than he. "^'^^ ""''^ '^'•^tched looking 

thet:::;rrdSrnr z"^''" ^'-^ ^-"--'^ 

and clawing o:^?:': t:^ J^^^'-craping 

very slowly, and that v.h7ut^ '^"^' '^"°8 '" 

of meal stcid laZTJ^t """'^^ ^'^^ "* -^^^^ 

iis right shoulder"; iuht"'"""^^^^^^^ ' ^P^*^' 
agamst the door-jamb. his left hand 


still on the knob. He trembled visibly, and, without 
removing his shoulder from the wood against which 
he leaned, passed his right hand wearily across his 
forehead, the long, pale fingers moving loosely against 
his coal-black, tangled hair. He wore no hat. His 
beard, a week old, completed the dark, circular frame 
for his dead-white face, made all the ghastlier by the 
big, fever-lit eyes. 

The eyes were terrific. They had in them the flame 
of terror. It was as if the fierceness of it lighted up all 
the badges of misery that he wore. His collar was 
gone, showing the neckband of his shirt fastened 
with a bone collar-button. The rusty coat hung open, 
exposing a tear in his shirt just over his heart, and 
from the right cuff of his coat sleeve, as he moved 
his hand with that peculiar, crawling motion, dangled 
a long piece of cloth. His trousers, baggy and shape- 
less, flapped slightly as his knees knocked together. 
His clothes, too big for him, made him look like a 
draped skeleton. His torn shoes spread out as if 
they had oe< n filled with mush. 

The terror that was in his eyes was also in his heart. 
It was more apparent, more real, than any terror that 
had ever faced Simpson the bum, or old Sullivan. 
It was something supernatural— something ghostly. 

Simpson shivered. 

Sullivan, who had let his paper slide noisily to the 
floor, got to his feet. 


"Hello!" he said, trying to make the word a mere 
greeting. In reality it was a command to the stranger 
to speak, to banish the spectral impression. 

The trembling man sprang into the room with the 
agility of a cat, slammed the door shut, and fell hard 
with hip back against it. He looked like one who has 
run a great distance and makes one last effort to 
escape pursuit. His burning eyes glanced at Simpson 
and then at the few articles in the barely furnished 
room, but they took no knowledge of what they saw. 
The flame of them, brilliant and steady, went toward 

"What can we do for you.'" the old man asked 
brusquely, disliking the brilliant eyes. 

The stranger, a grotesque flattened against the 
door, licked his lips twice and tried to speak. When 
he did so, it was in a rattling whisper, and he moved 
his neck curiously as if his throat hurt him. 

"Help me," he said, and there was in the whispt 
something that sounded unpleasantly like a whine. 

"All right!" Sullivan, having pulled himself to- 
gether, assured him. "Come over here," 

The visitor trembled as if invisible, irresistible 
hands had hold of him, and again his burning eyes 
surveyed the room blindly. He came away from 
the door with an infinity of caution, his breath au- 
dible in his nostrils. He came slowly, his knees half 
giving way beneath him. As he walked, half of the 


sole of his right shoe fell away from his foot and 
flapped against the floor. Ilis arms hung loose at his 

"Will you" — he said, whispering, when he almost 
had reached the desk — "will you help — help me?" 

Although the nhine of appeal was still in the whis- 
per, there was, back of that, something which sounded 
like a new definition of despair. It announced that 
he had no hope of finding help. 

"Sure!" Sullivan answered him breezily. 

The stranger lurched against the desk and fell for- 
ward, the hardness of his bony elbows making a 
knocking noise. With his head bowed, his nose 
mashed against the hard wood, h- flung up his right 
arm, his hand shaking, the fingers moving through 
the air with the slow, crawly motion, and screamed 
aloud, one prolonged note. 

"Ee-ee-ee!"he lamented shrilly. "I'mafraidof it!" 

He lifted his head so that it wjis flung far back on 
his shoulders, and stared at Sullivan. 

"I've run through the streets," he said in a whisper, 
"through the streets and through the fields— a thou- 
sand miles! And it was always — always brhind me. 
It held on to my shoulder." 

He clapped his left hand to his right shoulder, hesi- 
tated a moment, and grinned sheepishly, trying to 
cover up his failure to capture that which threatened 


"Nearly got it then!" he declared. 
The whisper, more than the burniiif; eyes, made 
Sullivan all sympathy. Ho held forward a pen and 
spun the register around. 

"Can you sign your name.' " he intiuired kindly. 
The stranger took the pen and pu.shed llie torn 
piece of coat-sleeve out of the way, preparatory to 
writing. He paused, the pen wobbling in his hand, 
while a new and grayer honor spread over his face. 
Then, ^vith the new ugliness upon him, he began to 
laugh in a silly, scarcely audible, fashion. 

"My name.'" he giggled. 'Somebody's stolen 
it!" Then, slowly, the words coming one by one 
through his vacuous laughter: "I— don't -know— 
my— name. Sortofajoke. I don't know who lam." 
"All right," Sullivan said lightly, taking the pen 
from the other's palsied fingers. "I'll sign for you." 
He wrote it down and spoke it : "John Smith. There 
you are. That all right.'" 

John Smith laughed vacantly and began to look 
round the room furtively. The tramp Simpson, 
who had been watching him with absorbed interest, 
thought that every bit of the man's personality had 
been concentrated into the uncanny fire of the terror- 
stricken eyes. But apparently they saw nothing. 
They entirely ignored Simpson's steady, -iarching 



"Here, you, Simpson ! "old Sullivan suddenlycalled 
out. " Get to your bunk ! Don't bother this man ! " 
The tramp went out through the other door, but, 
as 1.^ went, he looked back over his shoulder at John 
Smith, and whistled softly to himself, expressing his 

The stranger had let his head go down against the 
desk again. Sullivan, watching the shaking shoul- 
ders, saw that he was sobbing. 

"How about you now, John Smith?" he asked 
cheerily. "Feel better?" 

"Do I?" the other returned, bewildered, and lifted 
his head, resting his chin in the cup of his two hands. 
He kept that attitude while Sullivan, recognizing 
the extremity of the man's suffering, unlocked a small 
cabinet back of the desk and brought forth a flask of 
whisky id a glass. Smith, watching him, sobbed 
once or twice convulsively while terror made new fur- 
rows in his features. His eyes grew in brilliance. 

Sullivan, pouring some of the whisky into the glass, 
extended it toward him, with the pleasant invitation: 
"Take this drink. It's medicine now." 
Smith, his face writhing, his whole body jerking 
and contorted, fought against the agony of his fright. 
Then, by a supreme effort, he drew himself to his 
full height, like a man about to be shot, and put 
out a tremulous hand toward the glass. He tried to 
grin, but succeeded only in drawing his lips av.ay 


from his teeth as if they had been moved by strin« 
manipulated from the back of his head. ^ 

Go ahead!" urged Sullivan 
Smith took the glass in his right hand and imme- 
diately transferred it to his left 

-"l^t W '" ■"'■'^ ''■'"i'^'> • "I'-e «"t it -right here 
.ght here m my hand." He spoke now in a hoarse. 

It H .T'; '"'l""' '"''^^™^*^ -to his tone, "iv; 
got hold of It— haven't I?" 

"Sure!" agreed Sullivan. "Drink it'" 

Fromsomewhere strength came back to JohnSmith. 

There was m .us eyes force enough to compel the ga^e 

iikXii"' '"" "^" "^^ ''^^' ^- -- •>--«! 

left hL"'" ;" *"' '"''^' "'" ^'"'^ ^""^^'^ ^'^''dy in his 
left hand, I ve come down from high, awful places 
-places so high that the peals of thunder sounded no 
louder than a robin's call-so high that the pale ends 
of hghtmng whips cracked harmless against my eye- 
balls-so high that escaping souls went by me ifke 
thin, white flames!" "^ 

sZT' " ""'"' "■"''■ ''^ ^^'^"* «'-- ''"W-g 

"Old man," he swept on. "I've come up from the 
b^ckest depths of deepness, where there was no 1 ft 
not a bit. and yet worlds crawled in slimy. sicklJ 
motion, forever-where there was no hght. J y!^ 


...illions of miseries swelled into my eve^»^ 
there was no sound, and vet th» «yes-where 

thought was a scream.^g'e^t ^^^t^"?. °' Z^ 
you'll know some day th«t f h u7^ * ' " """« 
shrieking tonguel thai !^^h Tu'" '^"^" *°"«"«^ 
the heart." ^^ ""'^ ''"™ ""'I shrivel up 

"oidTn"'''' ' " '""''' ""*"•"-"« Sullivan, 
times die" '-""siaerthat! Spirits some- 

always within a hair's br^^^K , . ° ^*y"">ets 

sand swords, heavv as h 1 ""^ '''"'''-« "»«"- 

%ht at the end o7a sifrT;, "^"""''"^ '" '^' '^- 
^ °^ " '"''^^^ thread-just above my 

JJe strength returned to his backbone. He stood 


"They showed me no mercy." he explained, the 
ghost of in his voice. "I asked none. I did 
not look back or up. Without looking. I could see 
the bayonets and the swords. Old man. for at least 
a thousand years I've fled-fled with nil the furies of 
nell at my heels." 

He crumpled up on the desk, his misery-marked 
face m the cup of his two hands, and fixed the flame 
of his eyes on the wondering Sullivan. 

"For God's sake!" the old man cried out. "Drink 
the whisky! Here!" 

Smith began to laugh foolishly, a sound devoid of 
nurth or cheer, and. his shoulders sagging, backed 
away from the desk and the drink. He stood so a 
long moment, pointing a weak hand at the glass 

"And/- he giggled. "I've arrived-after a thousand 
years— I ve arrived at that!" 
He came back to the desk and stared at the glass. 

Old man. do you know what that is?" 
He was so subject to his own thoughts that he did 
not hear the street door open behind him. Not even 
the swish of a woman's evening gown came into his 
consciou.aess. Sullivan, leaving him staring at the 
g^ass. went to meet her. She was young, scarcely 
more than twenty, and tall and slender. She wore 
m her black hair a red rose, and her opera cloak, 
falhng sljghtly away from her shoulders, showed her 
columnhke neck. As she stood, graceful even in 



her stillness, awaiting Sullivan's approach, her wel- 
coming smile illumined the grave beauty of her face 
blie seemed to sense the tragedy. 

"Is there anything very wrong?" she asked in a 

She was all loveliness and fragrance and gracious- 

"He's pretty sick, Miss Edith." the old man whis- 
pered back. "But don't you worry " 

,J'"'« .r""' .'^'* ^""•' " '^^ questioned, and. 
seemg Sulhvans nod. added: "I came to see th 
matron. You know. I'm going to Washington to- 
morrow, and " 

to^srelk-^"'"*'"^ '""'^ ""^ ** *^^ «'"''' ^^ ''««"" 

"It's my enemy!" his voice boomed forth. "It's 
the thing that stole c soul away!" 

n,«?^^'!; """"""'"S -^""'^^n to go back to the sick 
man. stood and watched the scene. 

"It's a million women's tears, the fountain of an- 
other million women's tears. Women's woe! It's 
ful of the blue lips and twisted smiles of starving 
children. Children of hunger! It's the ruin of Zng 
men whom It has cheated. Poor, ruined men ' " 

He snatched the glass from the desk, spilling the 

Without taking his eyes from it. he put the heavy 
grip of his right hand on Sullivan's ahoulder. 


"Ah, man!" he entreated. "Look at it! Can't 
you see? There! The thing that makes its home 
there! His hands are too white, and he's got ashes 
on his shoes— ashes of dead souls. Think where he 
walks ! He's dancing with a woman. She's a pretty 
woman. Ah, watch! She's laughing. They're go- 
ing out through that door— and the laughter freezes 
on her lips! Out into the long, dark corridor that 
leads to nowhere— forever! And in that corridor are 
ghosts, grim ghosts, ghosts of murdered loves, ghosts 
of great intellects, ghosts of ambition, ghosts of those 
once virtuous. And she will meet them, will sit in that 
congress of eternal woe, weep forever with that ever- 
lasting troop of torment!" 

Sullivan, submitting to the grip on his shoulder, 
saw that the girl at the door leaned forward, her lips 
half-parted, her eyes wide with astonishment. 

"Look quick!" John Smith was saying. "He's 
talking to a young man, telling him lies, charming 
lies! But his lips are too pale, and there are ugly 
stains under his finger-nails. Did you hear that 
door slam? The young man's gone— gone! I heard 
one like him scream, up there on the edges of eter- 
His voice shrilled: 

"Look how he works— lashing the backs of men, 
breaking the hearts of women, stealing away the 
laughter of children. Look at him— all ghoulish eyes. 



His mouth's a grinning gap. And he's got ashes on 
his nice new shoes— ashes of dead souls." 

He pushed Sullivan from him, and with both littn(i.s 
htid the glass close against his chest, slopping over to 
t he floor the last few drops of the whisky. There was 
no thunder left in his voice. Emotions played with 
him as high winds thresh the trees in November. 
All his old terror beat upon him. 

"I'm afraid of him!" he shrieked, the sound bring- 
ing a half-stifled cry from the girl at the door. 

His hands grew nerveless, and the glass dropped 
unbroken, to the floor. He looked at Sullivan, the 
torches of terror relit in his eyes, and whispered 
hoarsely : 

"Old man, that's what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid 
of him!" 

On the end of that confession one great sob shook 
him, and he screamed, clapping his left hand to his 

"He's got me!" he lamented. "I've fled for a 
thousand .vears— and— lie's got me!" 

He stood, weak and uncertain on liis feet, and wept, 
the tears flowing unheeded down his sunken cheeks 
Then, suddenly, in a flash, fury tensed him, made him 
strong enough to grind the glass to pieces under the 
ragged sole of his shoe. 

"Curse him! Curse him!" he yelled. "Damn 


^^Wd^,.^.,„,k„.,Hac,oo.e. the false 
^^^at's the use?" he moaned weakly. "He's 

The girl rushing forward, reached him as soon as 
Sulhvan. Both of them caught him as he reeled and 
was about to fall. 
"Oh!" she said, looking down upon the pallor of 
■s face while they held him between them 

Hes m awful bad shape. Miss Edith," Sullivan 
explamed, h.s voice lowered involuntarily 

">g off the,r support. He was unnaturally calm 
An msane smile played with his lips 

"Look behind me." he said, his voice low and 
strained, his eyes fixed. "Look behind me and tell 

"1 ITt' r. ""^' ^^-ding-exactly. You ea 
teli him by the ashes on his shoes " 

(Z^'I'"^'^'''?^ " '"'"'' °" •"■« «''°"lder. leaned 
forward and tried to en,„ge with her glance his un- 
wavering gaze. 
"Who are you.'" she asked 

^HeT ?r*' 't'""''" ^"" P'«'^''°« ^''^ his lips. 

Hedon tknow MissEdith,"volunteeredSullivan. 

a nr?, '^"""^^he breathed.and urged him with 

a pressure on his shoulder: "Tell us. We want to 

help you. Whafs your name?" « ^«nt to 

There was no answer. Instead. Smith collapsed 


in Sullivan's arms, his lips still lifted to a smile, his 
bluish eyelids falling like thin curtains over the fixed, 
flaming eyes. 

"Very white ashes on his shoes," he whispered; 
"ashes of dead souls— ashes of— poor, dead souls!" 




thW^r ^'^''°'' ""' inordinately fond of two 
thmgs: h,s reputation and his roses. He had cultf! 
vated both with the greatest care for many year 
Seated at his breakfast table, the n.eal finishcThe 

nSHft^r^^^— ----'- 

His daughter, at the head of the table, gazed at the 
ckster of roses between then,, the corner! of her 1 p 
l.f ted^by the touch of happy fancies. The roses wS 

The Senator threw down the paper and, straighten- 
ing mbs cha,r, looked at his daughter across the' oses. 
^.^^Th.s fellow Snnth.." he said sharply. "I don't 

fatf 'f ?K "" "''° straightened in her chair. If her 
ather had been an observant man, her attitude would 
Im-e reminded him of a strong, slender flower. 

«ut I do, she said, the statement completing the 
smile the roses had begun. ^ 

"Why.' I'd like to know why! Tell me why!" 

.!*■ . '■ 



He made each of his phrases conversational pistol- 
shots. He was a nervous man of about fifty-five years, 
his voice sharp and authoritative. Before going to 
the Senate, he had done big things in business and 
had been accustomed to speak in the key of power 
He passed his hand quickly through his sparse, bristly 
gray hair and jerked his glasses from his high, thin 

"Because he is what he is," she replied, totally 
ummpressed by the signs of paternal displeasure 

"What is he.' Tell me what he is!" he demanded. 

^ He's a great man with a big idea." she said evenly. 

"He's a big fool with a crazy idea— that's what 
he ,s," her father said flatly, picking up the news- 
paper. "Have you read this stuff about him.' " 


"Before breakfast, I suppose?" he suggested im- 

"Yes," she said quietly, "before breakfast." 
The Senator's irritability merged into anxiety. He 
slapped the paper down on the table and leaned for- 
ward toward his daughter. 
■'Ah-er-look here, Edith," he said nervously. 
You re not-you can't be thinking about this fellow 

She threw back her head and laughed, the sound 
of It soft and silvery. It was very much in keeping 
with the grave beauty of her face, with the fragrance 


of the roses, with the brightness of the October morn- 
ing sunlight in the garden outside. 

"What do you mean, father?" she asked. 
^^ "I mean," he said, his irritation returning, 
whether you intend to marry him!" 
"■VVhy, the idea! Why should you suggest such a 

"I'll tell you why," he answered crisply: "Be- 
cause you're seen too much with him, because he's 
too much at this house, because people are beginning 
to gossip, because he's a nobody, a crank, a lunatic 
That's why!" 

"Still," she said, quite serious, "I like him very 
much, very much, indeed." 

"Bah!" he exclaimed. "Why? Will you tell me 

"I've told you why, father. He's a great man, 
and he's doing a great work. Why, think of it' 
He's come to Washington with the calm announce- 
ment that he'll compel Congress to amend the Con- 
stitution of the United States. Of course I like him." 

"Amend the Constitution I And amend it for 
nation-wide prohibition! The thing's ridiculous." 

"And yet," she persisted, her big brown eyes meet- 
ing the steely gray of her father's, "somehow. I feel 
sure he'i; succeed." 

He knew when his daughter's mind was made up. 
He knew also the quiet determination with which 





she followed her omi convictions. A girlhood and 
young womanhood without a mother, necessitating 
self-reliance had given her a character-strength with 
wliieli he couid not always s\iccessful!y cope. But 
this was something which might hurt his reputation. 
He could not afford to his name or his daughter's 
linked with that of a cheap reformer. 

"Edith, you amaze me!" he declared, rolling the 
newspaper tightly in his nervous hands. " This fellow 
is not the kind of man I want about this house." 

Miss Mallon wished to avoid the argument. She 
was looking at the roses. 

"You don't even know who he is." he continued 
sharply. "I don't know. Nobody knows." 
She lost interest in the flowers. 
"That's a peculiar thing to say, father," she criti- 
cised gently. 

"A very natural thing, and I'll tell you why," he 
said, making his .speech emphatic with a wave of the 
newspaper. "Nobody knew anything about him 
up to five years ago. At that time he became prom- 
inent among the temperance people as a street-corner 
speaker and cheap platform lecturer. He did some 
bizarre, effective work for those cranks in some of 
the liquor figtits in the various states. After that 
he took a short whirl at the Chautauqua lecture cir- 
cuit. Now 'ae's come to Washington to take things 
by itorm!" 



"And that's why you dislike him?" 
"Why doesn't he sny who he is— who he was? 
"Why all this mystery about him? Where's his family 
or his father?" 

"Why shoulu he say?" she inquired, her glance 
again on the roses. 

"Because most of these people are reformed drunk- 
ards with a past that won't stand scrutiny. That's 
The Senator had lost his temper. 
"He may be a murderer for al! you know," he de- 

"No," she contradicted, her voice still calm and 
even; "I don't tliink so. He is merely a man who 
has reformed because he learned by bitter experience 
the evils of drinking." 

"What do you know about him?" her father in- 
quired, leaning still farther forward. "A\Tiat makes 
you say that? " 

"It is merely my idea." 

He got up from the table and went to the window, 
standing a few moments silent before he wheeled 
toward her and delivered his ultimatum: 

"Well, I don't approve of him, and that's all there 
i^ to it. I don't want him to come to this house any 
more. That was why I told you the other day I'd 
be glad to see you marry Dick Mannersley. Man- 
nersley's a good fellow, one of the best in Congress. 




Marry him — marry anybody you choose, but cut 
out this Smith person. That's my last word on it!" 

More than ever, his daughter looked like a strong, 
graceful flower. 

"Father," she said, her voice a whole octave lower, 

1 can t. 

"What!" he stamped his foot. "I tell you there's 
something wrong with him — something wrong sure. 
I tell you he's unfit for you to associate with. The 
first thing you know, there'll be something in the 
papers about his coming here so much. I can't 
stand it! I can't stand having my daughter mixed 
up in something that would hurt the family reputa- 
tion. It will get into the papers sure." 

"That," she said, in the same low tone, "would 
make not the slightest difference in the world to me." 

The atmosphere was becoming volcanic. 

"Then," said the Senator, his head tbru- 1 forward 
on his long neck, his tall body bent forward almost 
like a half-hoop, "I'll forbid him the house!" 

"Oh," she breathed, "you wouldn't!" 

" Wouldn't I? The next time he comes here I'll— 
if it's necessary — I'll throw him out. I'll " 

The threat was interrupted by somebody who burst 
through the hangings at the door into the hall. The 
intruder, in riding costume, was blond and chubby 
and bubbling with laughter. The laughter still 
bubbled, even when she saw that her precipitate en- 


trance had cut oflF the anger on the Senator's tongue- 

"Ah!" she cried, hjr face a conspiracy of dimples, 
"a serious discussion at breakfast ! WTiat a mistake ! 
My dear Senator, no one can be human so eariy in 
the morning." 

Mrs. Griswold Kane had to her credit widowhood, 
charm, and a great heart. Still aglow from her gal- 
lop in the park, she brought with her the suggestion 
of the russets and browns and reds of the changing 
foliage there. She turned to Edith. 

"That is," she added, "not unless you ride. Give 
me some breakfast, do!" 

The Senator started out of the room, with the ex- 

"I was lamenting the unreasonable demands of 
my constituents, Mrs. Kane." 

"Oh," she corrected him, "constituents are things 
to be left at home. Never bring t!iem to Washington 
with you. Politics wouldn't be any fun if you did." 
She was all animation, excitement, glow. After 
the butler had brought hee the coffee and rolls, she 
began to say to Edith the things she had made up 
her mind to say. 

"There is," she remarked, munching a roll, "only 
one way for a man to make a woman love him forever. 
That is, to die within eighteen months after he has 
married her." 



Editli poured her a cup of coffee. 
"You know, Editli," slie said next, "vou are the 
most wonderful catch in th.Js fair city of ours. You 
are nch and you are beautiful-forgive me, my dear. 
If I enga-e ,n this saccharine conversation at this 
ungodly nour of the day-and, what is more to the 
poml, you have brains. Behold the modern miracle 
—a really lovely woman with real brains." 

''Really, Nellie," Edith expostulated indifferently. 
"And that is such a rare combination— so delight- 
ful ! " :\rrs. Kane bubbled on. " Think of me! I am 
not beautiful, and I have to overwork my brains to 
appear charming, to make my arms look chubbier, to 
gown myself stunningly, to disarrange my blond hair 
attractively-oh, everything. But you-you can 
have your 'Thursdays for girls,' dear work of telling 
the poor things how to make a living and not lose a 
virtue, and do all your other queer charities, and yet 
—and yet, be the belle of every ball!" 

"Honestly, Nellie, what does it all mean.'" the 
younger, more serious, woman asked. 

Mrs. Kane put down her piece of roll and brought 
matters to a climax. 

"My dear Edith," she asked, simulating real con- 
cern, "why don't you tell me whether you intend to 
marry the man.'" 
"Yesterday afternoon I played golf with Eddie 


*n"c:'»d i;- :::; -" '-» ■'">■■ — 

""H. •"lu mat s not romanno -^nA i„t 

encountered h,", mother WnnTr^ ' ""^ 

formation M ^ ',;?:'!''. '° T' '^'^ '"**'''^^""« '"- 
sur?"'' °' ""'"•" *^°"""^"t^d Edith, "i. ab- 

why I ask von t„ Tif «f d"™-^- And that's 
.""• """"" '~k"l M». Kane ,„|i i„ „,. „„ 

Mrs. Kane cast off her lightness SJ,» 




"I know what everybody else knows," the other 
woman answered. " It should be enough." 

"No, no!" Nelh-e cautioned her. "Never make 
that mistake! It isn't enough." 

Edith rose and went to the madow, where her 
father had stood a few minutes before. 

Mrs. Kane, looking at her shoulders, fancied that 
the graceful figure bowed a little. 

"Accept this from me," she forced the gayecy back 
mto her voice; "if a man hides his past from you. 
you may kiss him — good-bye." 
After a moment, she put a question: 
"Who is he, Edith ? Really and truly, who is he? " 
Edith turned toward her, smiling. 
"A great man. That's enough, surely, isn't it?" 
Mrs. Kane regarded her seriously for a long mo- 

"No," she said incisiNely, "not even if he were as 
great as George Washington, Napoleon Bonaparte, 
and William Shakespeare-all rolled into one " 


There was about John Smith some indefinable 
thing which other men did not l,ave. a tenseness and 
swift force that made him seem the white fire of life 
He flamed through his days. He dominated dinner 
tables m the evenings. The quick turn of his head, 
the flash of h,s black eyes, the strong, fast movements 
of h.s hands, the sureness of his stride-these were 
the unmistakable, flaunting banners that caught the 
eye and drew attention to the masterful spirit of the 
man. He was brilliant. There had been born in 
him a marvellous faculty for stripping from a situa- 
tion all extraneous and inconsequential facts so that 
he might see, and make others see, the stark-n ked 
figure of an issue, a truth. The most striking thing 
about him was his confidence, his final conviction 
that what he proposed to do he would do. He was 
absolutely alien to doubt. And, while he devoted 
himself to a serious work, a tremendous task, he was 
alert, sparkling. His mind was electric. Physically 
he was like wires. Tall, thin, broad of shoulder and 
narrow of thigh, he perpetually was strung taut. His 
reserve energy never was exhausted. 


ii: I 




He had come to Washington early in the preceding 
May to conduct a fight which made the young laugh 
and the old pray. Practically unheralded, entirely 
unadvertised, he had taken his place almost within 
the shadow of the Capitol's dome and had made the 
calm announcement : 

"Whisky must be thrown out of the United 

Charles Waller-cuphoniously known among his 
associates as "Cholliewollie"- printed in his paper a 
short announcement of Smith's arrival and mission. 
"What the agitator wants," the article .said, "is ac- 
tion by Congress on tlie pending resolution to author- 
ize an amendment to the Federal Constitution pro- 
viding for the absolute abolition of the liquor traffic 
in the United States and its possessions. He says 
he will be satisfied with nothing less than that. He 
is not here for a compromise. He wants to force the 
big fight." 

A few days later Waller called on "the agitator" 
in his unpretentious cffice in a small building three 
blocks to the northwest of the Capitol. Chollie- 
wollie was always on the lookout for something un- 
usual. He had decided to take Mr. John Smith 

"WhatI want," he explained, "and what vou want 
for the sake of your fight, is something hot, something 
that wUl be printed on the front pages of the news- 


_ tapers. Give me a good interview, and I'll fix it up 
in great shape." 

Smith ran his right hand across his black hair— 
a characteristic gesture of his— and studied Waller's 

"How," he asked, rising from his chair with his 
hghtning-like rapidity of movement, "how would you 
like to have something about the attitude of the big 
men of the country in regard to the liquor question?" 

"Pump it out!" Waller agresd pleafantly. 

He was a stout, fair-haired man of about thirty- 
five, and carried a cane. He spoke in a slow, agree- 
able drawl, and his smile was always ready. He 
gave the impression that he could not possibly take 
life seriously, particularly Washington life. 

"Why is it," began Smith, the embodiment of em- 
phasis and fervour, "that neither of the great political 
parties in this country has ever had the sense or the 
courage to come out for prohibition? Why doesn't 
the party that's in power now come out for it? We 
hear a lot of stuff about the evil corporations grind- 
ing down the masses of the people. We read whole 
columns every day about the high cost of living, the 
education of tlie young, and a world peace. We aie 
asked again and again to fight against the ravages 
of tuberculosis and to cut down the death-rate 
from cancer. Those things are not a drop in the 
bucket compared with the death-rate, the crime, the 



poverty, and the women's tears that are caused bv 

He put a hand on Waller's shoulder for greater 

"Air. Waller," he said, "according to the best fig- 
ures obtainable, alcohol is killing off every year as 
many Americans as there have been men killed iti 
many of the great wars of the world in the last 
twenty hundred years. Roll that over in your mind 
Picture what that mortality is." 

"Say!" interjected Waller, the drawl still in his 
voice, "do you mean you want me to quote you as 
attacking directly the party now in power for not 
coming out for this constitutional amendment for 
nation-wide prohibition.^" 
The reply was instantaneous. 
"Most certainly I do! The big parties and the 
big leaders of this country have enough to say about 
every other conceivable subject under the sun. What 
I want to know now, and what the public has a right 
to know now, is why this party has failed to declare 
Itself either way on this issue. Why are they immune 
from the charge of cowardice when they run away 
from the subject.' There must be a reason for this 
silence in places so high, in places from which come 
great pronouncements about everything else that 
touches, or is supposed to touch, the public welfare 
What IS it? That's what I want explained to me "' 


"Make that a little more direct, a little more suc- 
onct suggested the newspaper man. his attention 
utterly absorbed. 

"Let's determine." complied Smith, "whether the 
saloon and the influence of the saloon are so wrapped 
"P m poht.cs that the politicians are afraid to go 
agamst U. Lcfs ascertain why men will not vote 
down a traffic on behalf of ^hich all of them are 
afraid to lift their voices in public advocacy." 

And suppose they refuse to notice this challenge, 
as they probably will.- Waller's drawl elaborated 
the interview. 

"That's their funeral-not mine!" Smi.a waved 
his right arm in careless finality. 

"Also, suppose they become hostile to the prohi- 
bition movement as a result of this attack'" 
^^Snuth struck the desk once with his clenched 

"Ah ! " he declared, exultation in his voice. " Thev 
don t dare! That's the remarkable part of this busi- 

Zl T J Z ^"^ ^'^''^^' •'"* '^'y ^'^ 't •■» the 
dark. They fling a sop to the public conscience and 

the public demand by abolishing whisky and its use 

m the Capitol building, on Indian reservations, in 

the army and the navy. But they do the will of the 

hquor mterests when they say to the masses of the 

people: We will not destroy your privilege of self- 

destruction. Our soldiers and sailors we will save 




But you-oh. you can go to the devil your o.;-n way ' 
>Vhy. It would be just as reasonable for the Govern- 
ment to pass a law h-Qensing butchers and grocers to 
sell consumers a certain amount of tvp-^oid genns 
every year!" ' ^ 

VValler knew his Washington. Back of his drawl 
and his cane and his air of boredom was a rare discern- 
ment, a fine eye for the real forces in life. He had 
learned the capital, had studied its strange army- 
great men doing big things on a large scale, little men 
trymg sly games for small profit, successes with their 
names on every lip, futile men slipping into oblivion, 
the pillars of the country's business, the pirates of 
national and international affairs, the real and the 
fake. He knew the city-its beauty, its air of care- 
less gayely, its procession of cocksure men and well- 
dressed women, its thousands of blasted ambitions. 
Its multitude of intrigues and love affairs. "They 
call It the home of greatness," he had remarked once 
In reality, ifs the grave of greatness." 
And, since he knew accurately the value of men and 
their methods he had swung down the flower-hung 
Capitol Hill, boarded a street car. lounged into hi! 
office, and written the story of the Smith interview 
He had done it in his forceful, picturesque style, 
and Its publication the following morning had con- 
vinced Washington that there had come into its midst 
a New Personality. Senators and Representatives 



laughed at the new arrival A .7r».f ,„ 
-e .p and called hi. bletd' %ZZ2:n2 
men and women throughout the country began o 
wr. e h,n. letters of congratulation and'encrrag^ 
men . The great prohibition organizations called 
t.m ,nto their conferences. Newspapers came to "^ 
gardlum.. a regular feature. He had been pZ 
erly mtroduced by Cholliewollie. ^ 

Then, one night in the middle of June, when the 
moon hung yellow as gold in the sky. and the slow 
breeze was heavy with the fragrance of many kind! 
of flowers, he had been presented to Miss eS 
Mallon. Shestoodon the veranda of a coulye^b 
house, a knot of men about her. and. as he was about 
o pass somebody called him and introduced h"m 

1 was dunng an mformal dance, and the drum not" 
drowned whatever she said in greeting him. He dS 

an odd Lttle motion, as of astonishment, when she 

2 bs face dearly under the electric light overheld 
Most people were impressed by the ardour of his eyes 
He was used to it. ^ 

He asked for a dance, and before it was over she 
was expressing her surprise that a "reformer" co^W 
dance perfectly. '" 

"Somehow," she said, "I had never thought that 
temperance agitators were human beings " 

On the contrary," he informed her, laughter 






crinkling the corners of his eyes, "they're the most 
human and humane beings in the world." 

"But you!" she remonstrated, and added, a '"'tie 
breathlessly: "I mean you're such a man of— of the 
world. There's nothing clerical about you." 
"Oh, no." he said quietly. 

Something in his manner of saying that created in 
her the desire to seem interested in his principles. 

"And your arguments," sh. said, a.« they found 
chairs on the veranda; "I suppose they're the old, 
famihar Biblical things. There aren't any brand- 
new ones, any real discoveries to make Congress do 
what you want it to do, are there.'" 

"Oh, yes," he replied, detecting the raillery in her 

"For ir.-l .nee?" she urged. 

They sat near the veranda railing, the soft radiance 
of the moon falling full upon her, and making her 
Wack hair a part of the purple shadows of the night 
Her neck and shoulders gleamed through a filmy 
scarf, and her face, looking very white, would have 
been all gravity but for the laughter in her eyes. 
"Why do you laugh?" he countered. 
His attitude was that of a man seeking valuable 

"Really," she said quickly, "I'm not laughing- 
far from It. I never in all my life felt less like laugh- 
ing. Tell me. What is the new argument? " 


"I am arranging," he said seriously, "for the pro- 
duction of a moving picture which will show, among 
Its features, a whisky manufacturer reviewing a pro- 
cession of his dollars." 
"How do you mean?" 

"On the dollars will be the figures of the men and 
women his business has destroyed. It will be quite 
effective, I think: one by one. the grand total of how 
many men's lives, and liow many women's virtue, he 
nts ruined." 

"Oh!" she said, with a quick little intake of her 
breath. "You are very direct." 

He laughed in apology. 

"I have to be," he said. "Whisky is." 

"And ycu really care so much?" she asked, the 
laughter gone out of her eyes. 

"Tremendously," he told her. 


"For at least a thousand reasons," he answered 
and added: "Ah, there's the music! Will you dance 
with the agitator again? " 


Edith Mallo.v, a few hours after telling Mrs. 
Griswold Kane it was enough to know that John 
Smith was a great man, sat before a slow fire in the 
parlour of the big house in Massachusetts Avenue 
and went over in her mind that first talk with him in 
which he suddenly, almost brusquely, had avoided 
explaining in detail his reasons for supporting the 
cause of prohibition so ardently. 

"His real reason," she thought to herself; "that is 
what I would like to know, above all things. It is 
what he has never told me. I wonder why." 

Since then he had seen her frequently, and he had 
established himself as a national figure. His speeches 
before the committees of the House and Senate having 
control of legislation affecting the liquor question had 
been carried verbatim in the newspapers and had 
found a tremendous response from the country. His 
gift for organization had been of incalculable aid to 
the prohibitionists. And, most of all, his logic, his 
presentation of the question to individual Congress- 
men, and his incessant industry in every phase of the 
agitation for the movement he represented, had 


brought it to the front in public affairs. There was 
nobody, on either side of the controversy, to deny 
now that It was no longer a moribund mutter The 
fire of his spirit had breathed quick hfe into it and 
set It in motion. 

"There is," he had told her more than once, "so 
terrific a sentiment throughout the count, n against 
whisky and its evils that, if ever the constitutional 
amendment is put to a vote, it will get far more than 
the two-thirds majority required in the House and 
Senate to pass it. Of there will follow the 
more or less tedious work of getting the state legisla- 
tures to vote for t he amendment after it is authorized 
But that will eome. .My only eoneern is to get 
prompt action by the House. And vour friend Mr 
Richard Mannersley is the chief obstacle in my path 
—he and his blessed committee." 

It was for Mannersley that she was waiting now 
He and Smith were equally attentive to her. Nellie 
Kane had described her as the heroine of a political 
..;;!y in vyhich the two men, representing opposite 
-<a.s of a big national issue, brought to her their vari- 
ous arguments. 

Mannersley came in. regretting that Congress was 
about to adjourn, which would necessitate his going 
back to campaign in his x\ew York district He 
looked more like a stockbroker than a statesman 
his face devoid of any hint of imagination. In spitj 



of his expression of assurance and self-sufficiency, his 
florid features were too heavy. His light blue eyes 
were hard, and seemed, somehow, in keeping with 
his white, wiry hair brushed straight up from his fore- 
I:ead. His waistline had begun to disappear. He 
looked undertrained, too much indulged. Edith, 
while she talked to him, wondered why her father 
liked him. 

"Besides," he was saying, "I hate to go, because 
It looks hke leaving the field to the enemy." 

The tone of his heavy baritone voice made her 
wish she could terminate the interview then and there. 

"What enemy.'" she asked. 

"Mr. John Smith," he replied, succeeding in show- 
ing his real opinion that he had nothing to fear from 
the other man. 

"But," she objected, ignoring any personal appli- 
cation of his remark, "the legislative field is clear 
until December. Nothing can be done until Congress 

"I don't mean that," he said. "I dislike the idea 
of youi--of his annoying you so much." 

"But, really," she laughed lightly, "your concern 
IS unnecessary. He doesn't annoy me at all." 

"You mean you really like him?" He pretended 
to be astonished. 

"Yes," she said, unhesitant; "I do." 

"You admire this crank.'" 



«uld.'t." '"^'«'' """ Wm? I 

IW»» . ,''""''' ■"lite l»>e«liiiii win •■ 
i,"= "«""""»•■"■""<»■"» -n „ .he h.d „k^ 







"Simpl\- this," he said. '"He and I never can co- 
operate — and I love you. I want you to marry me." 
He was speaking very rapidly. "And the thought 
of your — your considering him is more than I can 

Although she had sensed what was coming, his 
frank declaration surprised her, so much so that she 
hesitated a moment before she put the laughing 
question : 

"Are you proposing to me, Mr. Mannersley, or cor- 
recting my visiting list.'" 

"He's attempting to destroy me," he insisted ex- 
citedly. She had never seen him so moved. "If his 
motives, which you admire so greatly, prevail, he 
will destroy me. Can't you understand what I mean? 
Political destruction would not matter if he did not 
adorn it with your approval." 

"Oh," she said regretfully, "you exaggerate me, 
and " 

The expression on his face made her turn in her 
chair and look toward the door. Wales, the butler, 
had lifted the hangings. 

"Mr. Smith!" he announce J. 

Mannersley got to his feet instantly, and was saj'ing 
good-bye to Edith as Smith entered the room. The 
agitator came forward swiftly and took her hand. 
He turned to Mannersley, greeting him with almost 
excessive politeness. 


Mannersley bowed stiffly, 
antl])!^'" ^'^ ^°" leaving?" Smith inquired pleas- 

"Surely," said Mannersley at the door, "you are 
not interested in that." * " «re 

"On the contrary," Smith replied. " I am. I want 
to have a talk with you before you get away." 

Oh! the other said dryly, as he took his de- 

"I'm sorry he was sc^shall we say crude?" Smith 
said, takmg the chair Mannersley had vacated "It's 
an imposition on you to be annoyed ' y the differences 
that grow out of this fight." 

parture''^ '""'"'"'^ immensely by Mannersley's de- 

"Nothing about it annoys me," she said seriously. 

Sometimes I wish I could help-the fight " 

He looked g.atified. 

"You have, tremendously," he told her. "Every 
time I talk with you, you give me new inspiration." 

He sprang out of his chair, with one of his sudden 
movements, and leaned against the mantel 

m.nT!r'"T""^' '"'" ''"'^ inadequate." he supple- 
mented; "but it's more than true." 

"I'm glad." she answered, looking up to him for a 
mom t. "Hike it, really-theatmosphereof fight! 
the knowing that you're going to win in the end. 
And there s something so very exciting in knowing 



■ m 


the mysterious Mr. Smith, the man who has set for 
himself the task of making Congress do a thing it 
doesn t want to do." 

"It isn't particularly exciting, is it.'" he inquired 

"Of course it is. The mystery in it is enough." 
He made no comment on that, although .she waited 
for It. She looked up to him again, the hint of re- 
proach in her ey^..,. 

"You know," she suggested, "I think you might 
confide in me." 

He stood up straight and returned her glance for a 
moment. When she looked away from him to the 
hre he paced the length of the room and back again 
with his quick, swinging stride. 

"Honestly," he said, his voice tense, "there's noth- 
ing to confide." 

"Nothing?" she asked, her glance still toward the 

"I assure you— nothing," he repeated. 

She looked up and smiled. 

"I almost wish there was," she said. He could not 
fail to note the tenderness with which she spoke 

She saw that he clenched his hands spasmodically. 
So do I," was all he said. 

There followed a pause-she looking into the fire 
he standing, erect and strung unnaturally taut, be- 
side her. 


"What, for instance?" 

She got the impression that he stood more like a 
statue han a man while he waited for her reply 
Httl. ] ^Zr'^"''''" '^^ ""^^'^ed, her words a 

m the fight-why you took it up. Oh, I know all 

about your speakmg and working in the states before 

J ou came here, but I mean why you ever started it." 

1 can tell you that in a very few words," he re- 

P led with curt emphasis, looking down into her up- 

ifted face^ I have an all-absorbing fear of alcohol, 

so far as I personally am concerned, and I have an 

ever-present knowledge of the ruin it works " 

And that is all?" 

She. obviously, was disappointed. 

pa mf uHy aware of the rigidity of his figure as he stood her. It occurred to her that a man faced by a 
great fear might be like that. 

''I hope you won't think me persistent, but " 

My dear lady," he interjected quicklv, "you 
could never be." 

th "f"*''"*'" f''^P^''^'*'<^d. "I ,,nsh with all my heart 
that It wasn't all." 

He flashed from her again. He seemed uncon- 




••Why-why do you say that?" he asked. 

"The knowledge of it is my great delight." he said 
his voice scarcely above a whisper ' 

••wtrf^f -^"f u''" '^' ''^^'^"^' reluctantly, 
know of the fnendship between you and me. And 

they ask me-naturally-who you are." 

And you tell them?" 
^ He^leaned down so that he might implore her with 

"iteirh n^r^^''*"^^""''°P^'^-"-- 
I tell them all I know." .he said, a trifle sadly 

that you are a very wonderful man. that you are 

domg a great work, that you are a Westerner and 

that you prefer not to discuss your past h7e i tell 

t slttwT '^" IT "-""'''^^^ -p'-- * " 

11, somethmg of a pamful nature." 

He leaned against the mantel and took a depn 
slow breath. He did not look at her '''' 

And isn't that enough?" he urged. 

She moved quickly, catching his eye 

stea?v r ^'"'"^ ■' T""^''- " ^'^^ ^''^d, her candid, 
steady eyes commanding an answer. 

He broke away from her level look as if she had 



been holding him by physical contact, and fell again 
into h,s stride up and down the room. Twice he 
returned to her, tried to speak, and lept silent. The 

InlVlT ^Vt'^ ^^'''"'^ '^' ^^'^ °^ the chair 
in wh>ch he had been sitting. She saw that the taut- 
ness. the ng.dity. which had been in his figure had 
gone into his features. 

"There is-there was." he began, "a tragedy. 
Surely I can tell you that." 

He paused, discomfited, searching for the words to 
make h^ story. She leaned forward, her eyes like 
to It was as if she held out to him a helping 

"Let me illustrate, if you will." he continued. "I 
know you will understand. There was a time when 
I thought of love, of marriage, of the woman. I 
have a wandering fancy. I have often thought that 
she was near. At the theatre sometimes I have 
been convinced that in the soft notes of a violin 
there was the echo of her voice. I fancied that the 
swaymg flowers in the park were intended specially 
to give me some idea of the exquisite sweetness of 
her presence I believed that all the love songs of 
aJl the poets had been written merely as predictions of 
the unfailing sympathy and wonderful understanding 
I was to find in her soul." 

He paused and looked at her. his eyes burning with 
the fierceness of the conflict within him 





"You thought that-once?" she said, her voice, 
too, httle more than a whisper. 

"Yes, once," he answered, struggling for all his 
self-control; "but not now. I do not permit myself. 
And I know, I feel, that 1 need say no more. It is 
beheve me, impossible for my past to interest you " 
.His eyes sought to compel her assent. She turned 
toward th> fire and stared at the flames, her lips 
formmg a half smile. 

"There is something I've wanted for a long time to 
tell you-something about yourself," she said at last 

About myself.' " 

"About you-and it was some time ago, a long 
time ago— five years ago." 

His two hands grasped the back of the chair con- 
vulsively. His arms trembled like heavy wires. 

"If there is anything you know," he begged, the 
ngidity of his features breaking up, "whether it be 
to mycreditor my discredit, I implore you to tell me " 
lou actually look frightened-ahnost," she said. 
No, not that," he managed to answer with dif- 

He hung over the back of the chair, his arms set 
out from his sides and trembling noticeably while 
she told him: 

"A little more than five years ago there was in 
Cincinnati a house of refuge for poor men-men who 
were down and out. The only rule governing the 


to h» » • "'^"•^'y ^'^8 that a limit of stay had 

what you're going to say? " ^' *''''* 

"Just a moment, please." she begged sentiv w 
agitaUonhadcommunicateditselftS Th ," 

ness of her breathing made o7 h r La.^ a'S" 
tumult. "Thi>,* k / "cr oreast a httle 

tuiTy-I mnl to fl,. „• • »•« m a grail 

John Smith slowly got himself erect, 
y vestige of colour had gone from his face. 






"I don't know." she said, the words heavy with 
pathos. "I never saw him again." 

"Never, until I met you that evening on the club- 
house veranda." 

He waited for the end of what she had to say, a 
luminous wonder in his eyes. 

"Ah." she said, pitying him, "you were that man. 
And I've never mentioned it to— to anybody. I 
thought you had a right to keep your own secret." 

"How marvellous!" he said slowly. "What a 
marvellous thing that is!" 

"But now," she concluded, "it might be diffei:ent. 
You might trust me— might trust my discretion." 
The way she spoke was a caress. 
"I had forgotten that house." he said, still mar- 
velling. "I had forgotten its name and location. 
Two years later I tried to find it. but to no purpose. 
And my condition was such when I left ther hat I 
had no clear idea about it." He paused ar . looked 
at her intently. "It is," he said, "the most won- 
derful thing I could possibly imagine-that you, 
you. were my "-he smiled wryly-" my hostess 

"And now," she s.ggested, "since you know I 
shared all the time that much of your' secret, is it 
quite fair to j. ssess my friendship any longer and still 
keep me in ignorance about— about the rest?" 


He turned and looked into the fire, the pallour stiU 
upon h.s ace. the whole of him wrung by rigour. 

ness ofTe/" *° '""^'''""'^" «he went on. the soft- 
ness of her vo,ce power to the words, "that 
I don t ask ,t for myself. It is for other reasons- 
/or your own sake, and for the sake of this greltZe 
n.en ,,„,h has acknowledged you as its ifad" . oT 

Si eZr ?"'* ^■°" ^^^''^^ '^^ tremendous in: 
JUS ce that you do yourself and your cause bv thi, 
foolish attitude of mystery?" ^ ' 

-I I?ti,'" '"'■'^- .ly"''''"^ '>*''• -ye«. "I suppose that 
—I see the possibility of it— now " 

She made no comment, waiting for him to continue 
I real.e the truth of what you say." he adm ted 
-pllT.""'""^^^^™'^^^--^"- But 
"You cannot tell me who you are?" 

Sody. ''""^' ''^ *^"^"^^^' -'^«<1 -t of 

"I cannot," he said dejectedly 
She shuddered, and. after she had been silent a 
long time, pot to her feet. 

"Then." she concluded, her voice dead of all ex- 
pression, "there is something. There m,„tK» 
thing whicL-oh, I cannot believTl" '°"''- 

She stopped and looked into his brilliant eyes 
He stood and looked at her. his lips pressed togeTe; 

!. ■ 






I h 


to a tliin line. TMiile she went from him with slow 
steps toward the door of the music-room, he stood 
leaning with his elbow upon the mantel in an anguish 
of despair. At the door she turned and held out both 
her hands to him. 

"You mean," she said, incredn'ous still, "you will 
not tell me what you have dont- or who you are?" 

"I — can— not," ho -.-lid lioarsely. 

At that she gave .1. little cry and turned and left 

He stood a few moments at the mantel, wondering 
tha» the silence of the room hung upon him like a 
weight. He, in his turn, shuddered. 
^^ "She would not believe," he whispered to himself. 
"Oh, God! She could not believe." 


J^TV?, ""'""*"' '"*"'• J°hn Smith came out of 

the outward semblance of his ordinary strength and 
bnlhance. The battle he had fought for sel rStrint 
rehearsed .tself in his mind, but his features r fleS 
none of its scars. Alternately and with incredible 
sw^tness two thoughts battered against his W 
One was that he should have told her everything^ 
the other was his memory of her standing in t£ 
doorway holdmg out her two hands to him. while s! 
swayed on her feet as a reed is moved in th slow cu 
rent of deep, heavy waters 

for the fiftieth time, when he reached the sidewalk 
and saw who awaited him. 'uewaiK 

wolhe-who stood with his back to the house slowly 
swmgmg his cane, his feet set wide apa asl^^ 
watched the afternoon procession of the a'utom bile 
of the great and wealthy. 

"Everybody in Washington quits work at half-nast 
four m the afternoon." Waller remarked. swIS 


■i- ' 


1 1 i, 




into step with him toward Dupont Circle. "That is, 
everybody who goes to work at all. It's the easiest, 
laziest city north of Jacksonville." 

Smith remembered that walk for many months — 
his answers to Waller's questions, his memory of the 
woman swaying in the doorway, the greetings of the 
men and women who passed him, his overwhelming 
sense of sorrow that he had refused the confidence 
Edith had asked, the children playing in the Circle, 
his calculation of what to say to give the best impetus 
to his fight — all of it stayed in his mind for a long 
time, a phantasmagoria of pain. 

"Congress will be in session eight more days," 
Waller was saying. "Let's give them all we've got 
during that time. First of all, I want to print a 
story in the morning giving your whole theory about 
this liquor business." 

"How do you mean?" Smith inquired, feeling the 
necessity of forcing interest in anything but self- 

"We've explained it all before, in broken doses," 
the other suggested. "\Miat I want this time is to 
sum it up. Tell it to me. You always put some- 
thing fresh into it." 

"Suppose we put it this way," Smith replied, his 
swift pace taxing the gait of Waller: "prohibition of 
the traflic, manufacture, and sale of alcoholic liquors 
in the United States is the first essential. Put whisky 


out of the reach of everybody. To shut off a state 
here and there is well enough in its way. It does 
good, but It does not regard the welfare of the othei 
states. ;^hat we n.ust have is national prohibition. 
Now. we cannot expect to take away from the 
pubhc a VICIOUS form of self-indulgence withoutgiving 
something better in return. Therefore, the second 
article of my creed is recreation-good parks for 
picnics municipal playgrounds for young and old 
cheap but good theatres, public theatres if necessary' 
bandconcerts,e^■erything that amuses and entertains! 
Thatis.v,. musthaye normal, wholesome amusements 
to drive away the loneliness and grayness of life that 
keep women on their doorsteps and drive men into 
the corner saloon. So much drunkenness is directly 
due to the mability of people to amuse themselves! " 

tZt^ ,T "" ^''"'" "^° " '"^"^^^'^'^ "q"«r dealer 
told me-and he was exceedingly profane about if 

In SIX or eight years we'll have prohibition every- 
where ,n this country. Already the moving-picture 
shows have cut the profits of the comer saloon 50 per 
cent. That's our trouble. They're amusing people 

whisky. The hquor seller agrees with you" 

Its an undeniable fact," Smith declared. "Now 

he third essential is better sanitation, better health 

laws, brtter care of the poor, better housing facUities 





for everybody. Sickness and disease are great trav- 
elling men for the whisky trade. It's the sickly, 
burnt-out man who tries to find false strength in al- 
cohol. We must have a better general health. There 
must be fewer starving children, fewer women and 
men crushed by poverty in the slums. There must 
be preached a bigger gospel of charity." 

"That sums it up just as I wanted it," Waller com- 
mented. "It shows so clearly that prohibition is 
necessarily more than mere prohibition. It is the 
cornerstone of a brand-new charity and citizenship- 
It brings with it more happiness, more health, and 
more holiness. It makes possible more delightful con- 
ditions than could ever obtain in the presence of al- 
cohol. Isn't that true?" 

"Absolutely!" Smith's old flamelike enthusiasm 
had never been more marked. "A man's body can- 
not be strong if it has to fight against a cancer. An 
army is whipped before it goes into battle if it i.s 
honeycombed with treachery. Whisky is like that. 
It is the cancer which wars against the best impulses 
and thoughts of the body politic. It is the traitor 
of every army of progress. Any man who drinks will 
tell you that." 

"That delectable personalitj', that genius-infested 
person, that possessor of the close-cropped dome of 
thought," pursued Waller, drawling his sarcasm, "Al- 
bert Mitchell, your particular enemy among the 


whisky lobbyists, is out in the afternoon papers with 
a long argument to show that prohibition laws do 
not prohibit, and that if men can't get whiskv to 
drmk, they find its substitute in patent medicines. 
How about that.' " 
''The height of absurdity!" flared the agitator. 
To say that prohibition doesn't prohibit is just as 
sensible as to say that the man who has to ride forty 
miles on horseback to get a drink will do it as often as 
the man who can get one by stepping around the 
comer to a saloon. And the patent-medicine argu- 
ment! There may be, I admit, here and there a 
drunkard who seeks such a substitute, but he is en- 
tirely a negligible factor compared to the young men 
who, through the absence of the saloon, will never 
learn to drink. Prohibition, Waller, is essentially the 
blessing and the salvation of the rising generation— 
and of women. Prohibit liquor to-day and you do 
away with drunkenness among all the youth of this 

Passing through Dupont Circle, they had followed 
Massachusetts Avenue to Scott Circle. As they 
turned the corner that brought them into Sixteenth 
Street and set them face to face with the White 
House, Waller began a new line of inquiry. 

"By the way," he said casually, "who are you. 
anyway?" ^ ' 


lit I 

!' ; 



Smith's tone was explosive. The question made 
his brain whirl. There crashed through his mind the 
different way in which Edith Mallon had asked him 
that only a few minutes before. The picture of her, 
swaying in the doorway, floated before his eyes. For 
a moment he doubted his ability to carry on any con- 
versation at all with the man at his side. That this 
inquiry should come on the heels of the first, seemed 
to him more than he could stand. Why, he asked 
himself, should this curiosity about him accumulate 
so rapidly? 

"Who are you?" Waller repeated, lifting his hat 
to a Senator driving by. 

Smith forced himself to answer smilingly : 

"John Smith — ^John Smith of Illinois, agitator by 

"And who were you?" Waller's slow words had in 
them the ring of inevitable pursuit. They represented 
to Smith what he might expect from the rest of the 

"Oh," he said, his smile not bright enough to make 
Waller oblivious to the weariness in his voice, "what 
difference does it make?" 

"Some day," his friend explained, exercising elab- 
orate care in the selection of his words, "the whisky 
lobby is going to attack you on your past. It's 
as certain as that I'm a foot high. You can't duck 
it. Heretofore, there have been allusions to it. 


They've sneered at you as a nobody, an unknown, an 
unimportant person without connections or any spe- 
cial identity. But in the last few weeks you've 
earned your reward. You've roused the country 
You ve put the public on the trail of these whisky 
people. And you've got to face what's coming." 
Smith waved his hand widely. 
*'0h," he said forcefully, "they can't hurt me." 
"You mean there's nothing in your past that you 
fear? " 

"Just that." 

"And you think this air of mystery can't do any 

"\Miy should it.'" 

"My rooms are just a block over, on M Street," 
Waller replied after a moment's thought. "Come 
over there with me, and I'll tell you." 




Waller's study faced the afternoon sunlight. 

"This room," he said, wheeling a big lounging- 
chair near one of the windows for Smith, "is like my 
life — full of everybody else's business, none of my 

There was about it an air of comfort and coziness 
produced in some extraordinary way by the mixture 
of incongruous and unexpected things — Mexican 
pottery he had picked up on a brief inspection of 
Villa's army; autographed photographs of a President, 
a famous divine, and a woman socialist; nuggets he 
had accumulated in his visit to the Coeur d'Alene 
mining strikes; a rich Persian rug presented to him 
by an importer ii. New Yc.-k; a revolver used by a 
murderess; curiously embroidered hangings, a gift 
from an appreciative friend at the Chinese legation; 
books and magazines everywhere; a photograph of 
St. Gaudens' "Nirvana"; paper-knives, pipes, ciga- 
rette cases, quaint Japanese jars of tobacco — all in 
apparent disarray. 

"The people I've had to know and cultivate," he 
added, a* if he regretted the fact, "reach round the 


world. They're so many that I got tired long ago. 
There are so few that I like." 

He lit a cigar and sank into the chair near Smith. 

"But you're different," he excepted. "And it's 
because you're real. You're a disturbance— a dis- 
turbance that really disturbs. You know, Washing- 
ton is waked up every morning by the cry that a Real 
Reformer is in its midst. And it goes to bed every 
night with the knowledge that it has been fooled 
again. You are the e.xception to the rule." 

He smiled broadly. 

"I'm a son of a gun if I don't believe you're going 
to last," he said, affection in his voice. 

Smith's impatience broke forth. 

"But tell me," he said, striking the arm of his chair 
lightly, "what difference can be made in this fight 
by what I divulge or do not divulge concerning my- 

Waller puffed his cigar twice before he answered : 
"I know you pretty well. It's my business to size 
up men as far as I can. And I know there never has 
been anything particularly bad about your past— but 
not everybody is as charitable as I am. Remember 
that. Furthermore, the whisky lobby goes on the 
theory that, when it hurts you, it hurts what you 
stand for." 

"If they can produce anything to my discredit, 
Waller, they're welcome to it." 




There was in the emphatic delivery of this sentence 
utter finality. 

Waller returned to the attack. 

"Honestly," he said, a puzzled look on his face, 
" why don't you end all this infernal gossip about your 
mysterious past? You've gotten by in society thus 
far simply because anybody with brains can get by 
that way in Washington. A man who can entertain 
a dinner crowd need never pay for a meal in this town 
— even if he's an escaped convict. But there's too 
much speculation and whispering about you even 
there. And, as for the political end of it, it just won't 
do— that's all." 

Smith leaned back in his chair, the late sunlight 
full on his face. 1 1 was the only time Waller had ever 
seen him look tired. 

"Let them gossip if they wish," he answered the 
other's protest. 

Waller got up and put his hand on Smith's shoul- 

"Old man," he said with quiet forcefulness, "you 
can't ignore them. The moment they convin'>e the 
public that there really is something in your p life 
of which Tou are afraid and ashamed, that moi..ent 
you will begin to slip. And the public is a fool. It 
will believe anything if you print it in the newspapers 
often enough." 

Smith made no reply. The memory of the woman 


swaying in the doorway, for tlie moment controlled 
his thoughts. 

"You're all wrong on this," Waller persisted. 
"Take my word for it. This isn't because I want a 
story. Strange to say, I'm interested in this move- 
ment of yours— the first time I've been interested 
in anything of the kind for I don't know when. I 
want to see you get away with it. But you can't do 
it in this way. I know the fellows who write the 
stuff the people read, and they can't get their hearts 
into stuff about a man who has hung a mystery about 
his neck — particularly when his enemies claim the 
mystery covers something criminal or shameful." 

Smith felt the convincing sincerity back of what 
he said. 

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing for me to tell- 
nothing at all." 

"Then," Waller said sharply, "if you won't, they 
will. You can bet your last silver buck on that. 
And, if they don't get the goods on you, the real 
goods, they'll manufacture something. They'll put 
out something, and it will be rotten, and it will hit 
you at the worst time. You can count on it." 

"Lies don't get anywhere these days," Smith ob- 
jected warmly. 

"Don't they.'" countered Waller. "Print one, 
and then see how long it takes the truth to catch up 
with it." 






"Oh, well," he dismissed the subject. "I stand 
on my work and the cause for which I am fighting. 
It's all I can do." 

The newspaper man smoked in silence. He could 
not understand how Smith, so clear-headed in all other 
things, should insist on a policy which, in the end, 
must be his ruin. 

"You might as well know it now," he said, the 
drawl pronounced in his voice. " You'll know it soon 
enough anyway. There's somebody in this town who 
knows something about this precious past of yours." 

"Impossible!" exclaimed Smith, jerking himself 

"If there isn't, I miss my guess a million miles." 

Smith's whole body bent toward him, as if to pro- 
ject with greater force the question : 

"What makes you say that? What do you know? " 

"I don't know anything yet," Waller replied. "So 
far, it's just in the air. But hints, intimations, are 
coming from the lobbyists, from Mitchell particu- 
larly. They say, if you don't give up the absurd at- 
tempt to lead this thing to victory, they'll show you 
up. They're insisting they have the man who knows 
the story." 

"Just a threat, an empty threat," Smith dismissed 
the idea. 

"I got it from Avery of the Record," Waller said, 
showing more plainly than ever his belief in the story. 


Smith, gazing toward the setting sun, pursed up 
his lips as if to whistle, but no sound came from them. 

"Well, what is it to be?" Waller asked, after 
watching him for several minutes and failing to get 
an inkling of what was in his mind. "Do you talk, 
or not?" 

"Not!" was the answer. 

He sprang from the chair, his alertness full upon 
him again. Waller followed him to the door, waving 
aside the thanks for his interest in the matter. 

"You're making a grave mistake," the newspaper 
man said earnestly. "And there's one other thing: 
If you expect to get action on this amendment in the 
House in December, as you have said, you've got to 
hit these representatives of the people in the face 
with something big, a new idea. Light a fire under 
them. Force the fightinp This isn't a fight that 
can be won by the ordinary methods. Make them 
sit up and take notice. Compel them to act. And," 
he added persuasively, "get to it before the whisky 
crowd tries to get you. Have things fixed by Decem- 

Smith, leaving Waller, went to his room on I 
Street. As he walked, the last drawling advice he 
had gotten from Waller revolved in his mind. 

"Light a fire under them," he repeated to himself. 
"That's the thing. Get the best of the Committee on 
Amendments. Do that, and I've got the fight won." 

I, i 


In his apartment, a modest little affair, he paced 
up and down a long time, permitting himself to go 
over in detail the things Edith Mallon had said 
to him. She loved him. That was his dominant 
thought. It seemed to him a miracle that a woman 
like Edith .should not only care for him but should 
actually come to meet him, should .show him so un- 
mistakably that she loved him, and should ask for 
his confidence. The most sought-after woman in 
«ashington-and he an impossibility. He remem- 
bered her again swaying in the doorway, heard the 
httle cry with which she had turned and left him. 
She even had asked him if he thought it a fair thing 
to keep her in ignorance. Was it fair.? He put the 
question to himself. Then, clenching and unclench- 
ing his hands until the finger-nails rasped against the 
palms, breathing like a strong man who tries to sup- 
port too great a weight, he struggled for the power 
to make himself think of something else. 

Waller's idea! "Light a fire under them! Com- 
pel them to act ! " He said these two short sentences 
over again and again while he paced the narrow space 
between his walls. Ora.lually he got down to some- 
thing like connected thought. What could he do 
that he already had not done.' What new thing 
could be injected into the fight.' He worked over 
the problem, exercising his brain as if it had been an 
arm with great muscles in it. Could the new impetus 


come from the people? Could he furnish it? What 
would "hght a fire?" 

He had done all within his power to beat the people How could he fashion new weapons. 

ZoT? r "T''«"- ''''' ^''"'^ ^ P""' '''^herto 
untrod? How could he show the crying demand 
of the masses for reLef f-om the one thing that 

evils? mrt^"' """ '"™ '^'"' "" '^''' °^''" 
He stopped, dead still, in .Ke n.ddle of the room, 
a slow sm.le driving a«ay th,- .u.x.ty that had been 
draggmg at h.s features. Jlc t. laugh, but 
checked h.s m.rth when it was only ha'f done. He 
talked to the window slowly, carefully, th- motions 
of h.s body reflecting the intens, y with .hich he 
thought, and studied, and calculated. A, last h'. 
threw h.s arms wide, raised himself on hi, toes, and 
breathed a long sigh of relief. 

"Ah ! " he said, like one who yields io tJ.e charm of 
luxunous surroundings. "Al.-h! It « ill do! It will 

And immediately he turned on the li,Thts and began 
to throw a few necessary articles into a grip. He was 
gomg out of town for a day to get the material for 
the nre. 

^Jn forty minutes he was on a train bound for New 





Mh. John Smith folded up the papers he had 
spread out on the great man's desk. The great man, 
his face a moving picture of thought, left his chair 
and went to the window overlooking the swirl of the 
deep, narrow New York street. He was one of those 
who have done all things by striking adversity in the 
face and seizing fortune by the throat. He turned 
and faced Smith. 

"Imagination," he said, "is :.■,'• key to all things. 
Thoughts, brilliant ideas, are the foundation of busi- 
ness no less than of art. You have brought me a big 

"I came to you," said the agitator, "because I 
know that help must be given by those who have felt 
the force of the enemy. You, in your familj', have 
suffered. That alone has taught you what the real 
philanthropy is — to save others from the thing that 
hurt you." 

The great man, who handled dollars much as his 
visitor played with words, sighed. The sigh was 
almost a groan. 

"My only son," he said heavily. 


"And," Smith reminded him, "there are so many 
other sons— sons who cannot be saved by the endow- 
ment of churches or the building of hospitals or the 
erection of libraries— sons for whom there is only the 
one chance, the destruction of the worst foe youth 
ever encountered." 
The great man returned to his desk and sat down. 
"Let me see your estimate again," he requested. 
Smith handed him one of the folded papers. 
"It is a great sum, a lot of money," the New Yorker 
commented, running his eye over the column of fig- 
ures. "And this estimate? Where did you get it?" 
"As soon as I reached here this morning, I went 
to the president of a big railroad. He had the cal- 
culations made. They are correct." 

"The cost is very high," the man of money said 
smilingly. And then : " You know, here we look first 
always at the cost. But the idea is great, the plan 

He sighed, and, letting the paper fall from his 
fingers to the desk, gazed out at the smoky sky. 

"And my own disappointment, my own heartache," 
he went on, quite simply, "is your advocate." 
Smith watched him in silence. 
"The churches, the hospitals, the libraries"— the 
big man's lip curled a little— "some of them are 
merely advertisements of their donors. But this— 
this would go into the lowliest hut, into the most 



luxurious palace. It would reach men and women 
everywhere. And 1 need not be known in it." 

He handed the paper back to Smith. 

"I agree," he said quietly, assuming his real busi- 
ness demeanour. " I stand back of it — for the amount 
you mention." 

A few minutes later Smith, swinging down Broad- 
way, caught the observation of those whom he passed. 

A woman with cheeks too bright and eyes too dull 
turned and watched him out of sight. As she re- 
sumed her walk, picking her way on the ridiculously 
high heels of her shoes, she murmured to herself: 

"I wish I had known one like him instead of " 

And a clerk, worn to the pale semblance of a real, 
animated, strong man, looked at him wonderingly, 

"Hov can a man look like that after a day's work? 
He must be made differently from the rest of us." 

Such was the elation, the fervid triumph, in the soul 
of John Smith because of the great man's promise. 


Arriving in Washington at half-past seven in the 
morning, liaving lost but one whole day in his trip 
to New York, Smith left the sleeping-car and went 
straight to his apartment. The fervour of triumph 
was still upon him. 

"It i.s settled," he said to himself, as he took a 
seat in the street car in front of the station. 

He gazed with new interest at the great dome of 
the Capitol glistening under the white sunlight. 

"So many things have been done beneath you," he 
said, addre.ssing the big pile mentally. "So many 
great things, so many little things, have cast their 
echoes to your roof but nothing like this— nothing. 
You are aljout lo reverberate to something new, 
something entirely and utterly new." 

He hurried through hi.s breakfast and went to the 
office building near the Cai)itol. The one room he 
had occupied at first had grown now into three, and 
he had found it necessary to employ two stenogra- 
phers in order lo keep up with t he correspondence that 
poured in upon him from everj- state in the Union. 
His mail had been staekeil on his desk. The first 






letter he picked up was on Senate stationery. It 
was signed by Thomas F. Mallon, and it said: 

Mr DEAB Sib: 

Owing to the marked difference between our views on a 
certain public question which you are so busily agitating, 
and because of the rather marked lack of any congeniality 
between us, you doubtless will realize the embarrassment 
that might follow our meeting in a social way anywhere. 
Consequently, you, no doubt, will observe the same care 
that I shall in the future to avoid the possibility of any such 

I have communicated to my daughter my views on this 

\'ery truly yours, etc. 

Without reading it twice, he tore it into small 
pieces, throwing the fragments into the waste-paper 
basket. His face diil not change expression. There 
was no nervousness in his hands or in his movements. 
He looked up Waller's apartment telephone number 
and called for it. While he wuitotl for the response, 
he looked through the window to the gorgeously col- 
oured foliage in the Capitol grounds. His attitude 
was that of any man who uses the telephone on a 
matter of routine but .somewhat important business.- 

"Hello!" came Waller's voire. 

"Good morning," Smith replieil. "Sorry to bother 
you so early in the day. Waller fact is, I didn't 



stop to think of the hour. But there's sometUng I 
want you to find out for me." 
"Go ahead!" Sleepiness was in Waller's tone 

"What is it?" 

"Get a line on why Senator Mallon is so bitter 
toward nie." 

"But can I?" 

"Certainly you can." 

"All right. I'll begin on it to-day." 

"That's the man ! And I want it as soon as I can 
get it." 

"That's me!" 

"And, Waller, do it quietly." 

"How do you mean, quietly?" 

" I don't want him or anybody— anybody— to know 
that I care to find out about it." 

"Leave it to me," Waller assured him. "Say, 
where have you been?" 

"New York." 
"Anything doing?" 

"Yes. Meet me in Mannersley's committee rooms 
at two this afternoon." 

"Man^^ersley's?" Waller's astonishment made the 
receiver rattle. 
"Yes— at two." 

"All right, I'll be there. Good-bye." 
He looked at his watch and law that he had only 






an hour in which to dispose of the remainder of liis 
mail. He turned directly to the task, going to a 
door and calling in one of the stenographers. 

"Let's be as fast as we can, Miss Jehlle," he 
said quietly. "I've an important appointment up- 

Not once had it occurred to him that Edith Mallon 
could have had the slightest thing to do with his 
banishment from her home. Senator Mallon 's atti- 
tude did not disturb him except that it struck him 
as an unnecessary insolence — and an inconvenience. 
If it did not worry her, he was satisfied. He would 
be able to deal with the Senator. lie had dealt with 
Senators before. The lobby was attacking him in 
his social relations at last. Obviously, such a moti\ e 
had inspired Mallon. And his experience had taught 
him the ease of fighting people whose tactics are the 
fruits of mean motives. As he worked, his serenity 
was unruffled. 

Miss Mallon was not .so fortunate. She was neither 
serene nor unruffled. Bowling down Massachusetts 
Avenue in her electric a few minutes before noon, she 
looked at the golden-brown and russet -reil of the trees 
which stretched, like two big folds of fairy embroidery, 
on both sides of the street. It was a day when the 
world seemetl awash with gold. A touring car, 
crowded with girls and young men, overtook and sped 
past her. On the sidewalk, at a corner, an Italian 


ground his organ while golden-haired, freshly dressed 
children danced to the music. 

"In the aggregate." she thought, "on the whole, 
the world IS always lovely, always beautiful, as it is 
to-day. But. to make up that whole, how much of 
pam there is, how much of suffering!" 

Her father's words at the breakfast table that 
morning still rang in her ears: 

"I wrote to your friend Mr. Smith yesterday, for- 
bidding him the house." 

What an outrage that was! Why should anybody, 
her father even, presume to say who should be her 
associates or who should not.' Of course it would be 
impossible for him to come to the house. She could 
subject neither him nor herself to the awkwardness 
of It. but, equally, of course, she would see him quite 
frequently elsewhere. 

Why had she committed herself so uttiiK in her 
own heart.' Why had she accepted, without argu- 
ment, the fact that she loved him.' Su,.pose she 
were called on to e.xplain her feeling -wlwit would 
she say? She dismissed reflections as rapidly 
as they came. She loved him. And. since she did 
ove him, she i-ouhl see no reason for trying to disguise 
the fact to herself. She was like that. 

Late the night before, with her brain reeling from 
the intensity and constancy with which she had re- 
viewed and re-reviewed that scene with him when he 



had refused her his confidence, the truth had come 
to her as a certainty, a conviction. She knew now. 
Nothing could have shaken her belief in the truth of 
what she knew. She knew, and she loved him. For 
her, those were the only two really important things 
in the world— her belief in him, and her love for him. 
She remembered a famous evangelist having said to 
her once: "There are only two big things in this life. 
Miss Ma'Ioi— the things we do to those who love us, 
and the 'J.ings that are done to us by those whom we 
love." ""hat had expressed her philosophy exactly. 
She was going now to call for John Smith at his oflSce. 

As far as she herself was concerned, her own in- 
tentions, her own trust in the future, nothing annoyed 
her. That which did attack her happiness was the 
fear of what he, through his quixotic ideas, his con- 
scientious regard for her, might consider it his duty 
to do. Her memory of the grief that he had felt 
in refusing her what she had asked, the story of hLs 
life, was vivid before her. She feared to distress him 

Edith Mallon was an unusual woman. Old Soii.i- 
tor Watrus called hor 'Hiio wonderful .iiiiong 
women." Washington is a city famous for its men 
rather than its women. The women, surrounded by 
affairs of state, immersed in a flood of political gossip, 
breathing always the atmosphere of national itffairs, 
seldom make an effort to study and understand the 


very thing in which their husband, hve and move and 
have their being. Edith was one of the two women 
m Washmgton who read the Congressional Record 
every morning. Her mornings she Icept for herself. 
Senators and Representatives charged with the fram- 
ing of legislation affecting the humanities-better 
working hours for women, better health conditions, 
legislation affecting food, the betterment of children's 
conditions-found her a valuable adviser, sought her 
opinions on details which many hours of public hear- 
m,i. had not made dear. She was far more than a 
delightful partner at a dance, a centre of brilliance 
at a dinner, a woman whom men sought in marriage. 
She w^ a student. And. like Cholliewollie, she knew 
her ^\ashIngton. Cholliewollie, who knew every- 
body had told her once, at the end of an interview 
with her for his paper: 

"You'd bettor look out for this woman suffrage 
stuff. Some day it will result in .iefeating your re- 
vered father and making a United States Senator out 
of you ! 

In addition to the special and imperious attraction 
John Smith had for her. she realized to the full the 
greatness of the work he alreadj- had done His con- 
quest of Society, as WMov had pointed out, had been 
eomplete. That had been due entirely to the charm 
of his personality and the dclightfulness of his wit 
1 eople had accepted him at face value. He was he- 



' '1 

1 ■ If- 


i ' 






that was enough. And, when the gossip had starteti 
about his mysterious pa«t, old Mrs. Grover, who 
always suspected any strange man of being a chauffeur 
in disguise, had said, " If his past is as charming as his 
present, it has no terrors for me " — a sentiment that 
was received as an accurate description of the whole 
city's attitude toward him. 

But the impression he had made on men, on of- 
ficialdom, had iH'en far more remarkable. Congress 
is like any other large assemblage of men. It is 
dominated by u small grouj)— a little band of leaders 
in the House, another in the Senate. It must be 
so. Unless it were, nothing ever could be accom- 
plished. And the leaders disregard outside con- 
siderations, extraneous issues, an\-thing other than 
the legislati\e program laid down in the conferences 
between themselves and the President. That is, 
they disregard it until the popular voice— that vague, 
powerful, irresistible thing which they call "public 
opinion"— begins to cry like a wanderer in the wilder- 
ness. Even then they disregard it until it reaches 
a key w liich shows that, unless it is answered, ven- 
geance will be visited on the responsible party at the 

She knew this as well as any of the lawmakers 
knew it. She knew, also, that the prohibition agita- 
tion had been for thirty years a cry in the wilderness, 
a call that Congress had disregarded. Since she 


had met Smith, she had studied that problem as 
thoroughly as she had gone into many others. She 
knew the rehictance of any politician to touch the 
question. She remembered the motto in Wash- 
ington: "If you're for liquor, off goes your head- 
If J^u're against it. off it goes." She knew that the 
bulk of the members had proceeded on the policy— 
the convenient policy-of saying: -This is nothing 
for the Federal Government to interfere with. Let 
the states or the various communities deal with it 
as they see fit." Of course it was cowardice, she 
argued, when makers of the law kept their hands off 
what they knew was an evil and excused their apathy 
by contentions that contained no common sense. 
But the lethargy had continued. 

Then, when Smith had appeared, his first attack 
had been on what he termed "the hypocrisy, the 
smug slumber, of Congress." He had called them 
cowards openly, had stated in his speeches and inter- 
views that only cowards would refuse to right a 
wrong that was patent to all. And. what was far 
more effective, he had told them, in terms startlingly 
clear, of the woe alcohol brought to the people, of 
the waste it put on the country. He had made the 
pubhc see the individu.1l sorrows of the burdened 
women, the pathetic ruin of the men. And. as is 
always the case in such an agitation, the response had 
come, slowly at first— so slowly that it had hardly 




^^^ 1653 Eost Main Slreet 

^S Rochester, New York 1*609 USA 

■^:S C^) ^83 - 0300 - ■'tione 

^^ (716) 28a - 5969 - Fo, 


(limmed the smiles of derision with which he had been 
welcomed to Washington — and then in increasing 
volume until Members had begun to "sound out" the 
sentiment in their districts and the whisky interests 
had sent into Washington a regiment of their smooth- 
est, suavest men to act as lobbyists. 

Now the fight was on. Only Mannersley and a 
majority of his committee stood in the way, refusing 
to report to the House the resolution authorizing the 
constitutional amendment. The House could not 
act without anything before it. And Mannersley and 
his colleagues, for reasons known only to themselves, 
shut their ears to a-gument and sat, stubborn, un- 
yielding, unreachable by the friends of prohibition, 
while Smith and the organizations in sympathy with 
him headed the country's clamour. 

Edith, making this mental catalogue of the mar- 
vellous work the man had done, was passing La- 
fayette Park on Jackson Place when she caught sight 
of him on the sidewalk in front of her. The first 
idea that came into her mind was that he had never 
looked so electric, so — so— "impregnable" was the 
word she hit on finally. She drew up alongside of 

"On such a morning," she invited, as he stepped 
forward to meet her, "and with such a chauffeur, 
won't you come with me?" 

She thought he hesitated for a fractional moment. 


Then, stepping around to the other side of the ma- 
chine, he opened the door and took his place besioe 

_ '.'Anywhere,'' he laughed, his eyes all compliment, 

with such a chauflfeur!" 

In spite of her air of hghtness. he saw immediately 
that she was troubled. He wondered if she knew of 
ins having received the letter from her father 

boiriT ^T '■"" •'''"•" '^' •■"^"-ed.'as they 
bowled down between the White House and the State! 
^\ar and .Navy Building, toward Potomac Park 

I m just back from the British embassy," he ex- 

"And the secret mission.'" 

"The Ambassador wanted to tell me that Lord 

Kitchener is about to issue a proclamation asking 

he peop e of Great Britain to cooperate in his plan 

^ keep liquor out of the army on the Continent. 

You know the Ambassador got from me some months 
ago^data about the physical effects of alcohol on the 

"Isn't that splendid!" she applauded. "The 
Russians have come to the same way of thinking. 
The Countess told me yesterday that the Czar is 
immensely pleased with the effects of his order pro- 
hibitmg vodka-drinking while the military opera- 
mns continue. He is so pleased with the benefits 
to the peasantry that he has instructed his advisers 




II t 
l! I' 

to draw up a financial scheme which will make the 
government independent of the revenue it now gets 
from vodka. He wants no more of it in Russia." 

"And yet," he said indignantly, "we Americans, 
who boast of our common sense, submit to whisky!" 

She turned the machine to the right, past the Cor- 
coran Art Gallery. 

"Have you time for a run round the Speedway.'" 

Her manner was suddenly quite grave. 

"Oh, yes," he answered, looking at her keenly. 

"There is something I want to talk to you about," 
she continued, "someuiing that troubles me greatly." 

"I think," he said, his voice warm with gratitude, 
"I know what it is." 

"But I am wondering," she mused gently, "what 
you will say." 

She had turned sharply to the right again, taking 
the long, flat road that leads straight into the west 
and seems to run sheer against the Virginia foothills, 
the white columns of Arlington, and the flags of Fort 

"Is it," he asked, "so serious as that?" 

"Quite," she said, turning to him so that he saw 
all the grave loveliness of her face. 


He had intended to tell her of the thing his trip 
to New York had developed, but his thought of her 
trouole kept him silent for the moment. 

"I got your father's letter— this morning," he 
said at last, seeking to make it easier for her. 

He was wondering that she should be so friendly, 
so personally interested, toward him after his be- 
haviour two days before at her home. 

There was a sharp little intake of her breath be- 
tween her lips. 

^ "It was such a brutal thing to do!" she exclaimed, 
"and so unnecessary, so inexcusable, so unjustifi- 

"All of us make mistakes," he said gently. 

"I did not know of it until this morning," she 
explained further, shame for her father's discourtesy 
flushing her cheeks. " He told me at breakfast what 
he had done.' 

"I am sorry— sorry it has annoyed you," he as- 
sured her. 

"I can't understand," she said, "why he did it!" 
She added: "Even if he disliked you, disapproved 





of you, why couldn't he have made some allowance 
for — for the fact that I was your friend?" 

"Perhaps," he smiled, "that was what he didn't 
exactly like." 

When they had swung into the road that follows 
southward along the bank of the river, she stopped 
the machine. 

"I think I'd like to walk down there and stand 
on the edge of the river," she informed him. " Some- 
how, talking, real conversation, is so very difficult in 
a machine." 

They went down the sloping bank, the long grass 
pulling at their feet, and stood on the rocks that 
riprapped the bank. Behind them was the tall, 
wavy curtain of the great willows. Before them the 
river, slow and heavy, was like dulled silver except 
when, here and there, the breeze moved it to catch 
the whiteness of the sunlight. Beyond the water 
were the Virginia hills, all yellow and gold and crim- 
son, a light blue haze hanging over them like a thin 
veil. A freight train, bound southward, rattled across 
the long bridge. And far down, below the bridge, 
sounded a steamboat's whistle. 

They seemed strangely alone, unnaturally isolated 
from the rest of the world. 

"What a lovely city it is!" he said, voicing his 
enthusiasm. "And what lovely places hedge it about ! 
It is the loveliest city in all the world." 



" Ves," she agreed absently. 

She was drawing off one of li-r gloves, not knowing 
at all what she did. She was regarding the haze- 
covered hills. 

"I wanted to tell you," she began, a little hesitant, 
"that I— wanted to tell you with all the earnestness 
of which I am capable — that I always shall be— your 
He was unaccountably touched by her manner. 
"You are very kind," he said, making a bow which, 
in spite of its apparent lightness of gesture, somehow 
emphasized his real feelings. 

"Oh!" she replied desperately, "it's so easy to be 

"Not altogether, I think." 

"But," she continued, "I am also very humble." 
She drew her lower lip between her teeth, and 
stood a moment, pulling slowly through her gloved 
hand the glove she had taken off. 
"Humble!" he exclaimed. 
"Yes," she said, her voice lowered, "humble." 
She turned to him abruptly, dropping her hands to 
her sides so that she faced him, willowy straight, her 
eyes soft and glowing with the golden sunlight that 
fell full upon her face. Her lips trembled. 
"I know! I know now! "she said. 
Involuntarily, he took one step backward, away 
from her. 





r? * 

"Know what?" he asked, wondering. 

She was pressing her Hps together now, to imprison 

"It was .so foohsh of nie not to have known the 
other day!" she reproached herself. "You cannot 
tell me who you are because you don't know." 

Her eyes were a mandate that he tell her the truth. 

"That is true," he said, inexplicably calm. "I 
do not know who I am." 

He waited for her to speak and saw that she could 

"I should have toiti you when you asked me," he 
added. "I should have known that you would have 

"How foolish I was! How foolish we all are!" 
she said at last, trusting herself to speak. "Unless 
tragedy is plainly labelled and unless it cries aloud 
to us in the streets, we never see it. We never re- 
member that all tragedies are clothed in common- 

"Don't! don't!" he begged. " I cannot endure to 
see you grieved." 

"But you are so brave," she excused herself anew. 
"You laugh, and work, and do great things. I — I 
never suspected." 

He held out his hand as if he supplicated her. 

"Please," he implored, "do not — this little trouble 
of mine should not — should not distress you so." 



"Ah," she sighed, "but it docs." 

He felt his helplessness keenly. 

"But it shouldn't," he urged. "Why should it.°" 

Her eyes, meeting his, were deep and unafraid. 
His momentary thought was that she was very brave. 

"Because you love me," she said, her glance still 

He smiled and bowed again, reverence possessing 

"Ah, you have seen it!" he observed, lifting his 
head so ^'lat the sunlight left no line of his face un- 
touched. As he spoke, there was a gentle raillery 
in his tone. It was like a delicate armour to enable 
him to withstand her loveliness. "But let me, in my 
own justification, explain." 

"Ah," she breathed, "tell me.' 

"You have been to me," he said, the false levity 
lacing his words together, "what an}' man's conscience 
is to him, if he regards his conscience as his king. 
That is what you have been to me — something en- 
meshed in the glamour of the moon — a far glimpse of 
the lovely flowers of paradise." 

"I should not have been that," she interrupted 
quickly, reproaching him. 

The tenderness in her eyt i throve. 

"But to you I could have been " he began, 

more than ever the graceful actor of a light comedy. 
"Why, I was like a jester in varicoloured hose danc- 



ing on a battlement, dizzy -high, for the passing pleas- 
ure of a lady of the court." 

He smiled and spread out his hands in deprecation. 
Ths comedy was weakening. 

"You know," he reminded her, "the clowns were 
always funnier when they were maimed." 

"How can you?" she rebuked him. 

"It could not have been otherwise." liebellior. 
against what he had suffered forced him to serious- 
ness. "That is what I am — a jester, a thing for all 
the world to laugh at — the sport of fortune! Why, 
I don't even know my own name. My blank past 
robs the fuiure of the promise of any good thing. I 
cannot remember. My memory is dead." 

"And you have never known — who you were — 
since that night in the mission — in my mission?" 

"Never — since then." 

She looked again toward the hills. A lou-ing car 
whizzed along the road behind them. The boat's 
whistle, far downstream, blew again. F r;m some- 
where up the river came the voices of fishermen in a 
rowboat. The world was all about them, but, to 
him, it had shrivelled to the width of a woman's 

"And drinking, dissipation, whatever you please 
to call it," she said, her glance still toward the hills, 
"did this thing to you?" 

"It must have; I am persuaded of that," he an- 


swered, bending forward a little, as if his longing im- 
pelled him. 

She turned and took one step toward him TLey 
were very close together. As th;y stood so, he caught 
the fragrance of her hair. 

"Why don't you try to find it— tliis past?" she 

;-,he spoke the language of resoluteness. 

"I have tried to find it," he answered, a trifle 
heavily. "I am trying. My life is an agony of ex- 
plorption, an anguish of disappointment. I have 
employed agents, trusted men. I employ them now. 
The absurdity of it! They search the world to find 
out who I am!" 

" They will find out ! They must ! " 

He stood and regarded her, wo-shipping the valour 
in her eyes. 

"So far," he said, "they have proved only tuat I 
amounted to nothing. Nowhere have they found 
even the shadow of my vanished personality." De- 
spair clouded his face for a moment. "It seems in- 
credible that any human being couid have amounted 
to so little!" 

Anxiety, something like indecision, assailed her for 
the first timt!. 

"And the ;;ffect of all this on your work — here 
— now? " she p.sked, her lips uncf rtain again. 

"You were right in what you told me the last time 




I saw you," he admitted. "I know now they will 
attack me — the lobbyists — on the assumption that 
I have something in my life to conceal." He laughed 
lightly, without mirth. "Tliat, you know, is rather 

She did not smile. 

"And it will hurt the work?" she persisted. 

"I hope not," he said. "There is this to our ad- 
vantage: it has gone so far, this movement, that it 
will keep on, no matter what happens." 

She stood, leaning all her weight on one foot, her 
position making it seem that her shoulders stooped a 
little. Her eyes were still a question. 

"I see now," he upbraided himself, "how foolish, 
how tragically foolish, I was in the beginning in 
trying to run away from my trouble — my disgrace. 
Nobody asked questions when I first began this work. 
Who was I, that anybody should bother? I was a 
nondescript, a nonentity, circusing on the street 
corners. Then, later, when a few began to look up 
to me, I told myself it did not matter what I had 

"It didn't, really," she comforted him. "People 
are fore/er asking what a man has donr. That is 
not V'hat matters. It is what he is, what he wants 
to be. If they would only understand that about 

"The truth is, I suppose," he went on, eager to 


make her understand, "I was aslminod of not being 
like other people. And I tried to hide my difference 
from them. That was my great mistake. We can't 
hide anything we've ever done, can we.' We are 
to-day very much what we did and thought yester- 
f'ly, and we will be to-morrow, in great part, what 
we do to-day." 

"Yes," she assented, "each year is beautified or 
made hideous by the lengthening shadows of those 
other years we have left behind." 

"So," he forced again the raillery into his voice, 
"there is nothing more— nothing at all, is there?" 

"Is it too late now to stop hiding it.'" slie put b. 
final question. 

He could see that she was fighting against her be 
wilderment, trying to beat down the doubts that 
assailed her. 

"Under the circumstances, yes," he declared, put- 
ting with emphasis the result of all the thought he 
had given the problem. "Nobody would believe— 
nobody in all the world but you." 

She smiled sunnily. 

"You will know— always— that I do believe?" 

"That knowledge," he said earnestly, "is to me 
like an c.^Icr of knighthood." 

She held out her hand and shook his, manlike. 

"Now," she concluded, "let me drive you back. 
Gracious ! How long we've been ! " 



Her cheerfulness, however, was assumed. It dis- 
appeared utterly when she felt the trembling of the 
hand which he put to her elbow as she stepped into 
the machine. As they rode, they were silent, or, 
when they did speak, it was of inconsequential things. 
He felt that there was nothing more to say. There 
was nothing, he knew. That was his tragedy. There 
was nothing more she could say. That was her grief. 

In spite of his protestations, she drove him to his 

"Always," she .said, as he told her good-bye, "you 
will know that 1 believe." 

"Yes," he replied; "and always you will know that 

He checked himself 

"Yes," she said gently, the candour of her eyes 
like a ' enediction, " I shall know — always." 


Waller, languid and slow, entered the reception- 
room of the offices occupied by the Committee on 
Amendments to the Constitution. Then, very de- 
liberately and with great care, he removed his hat 
and held it, with his cane, in his left hand while he 
closed the door. 

It was a hobby of his that stupid people were the 
most interesting in the world. 

"They have a secret," he explained, "something 
about them mysterious, which, so far, nobody has 
been able to analyze. Why are they cheerful? Why 
are they glad to live? What makes them contented? 
Wrapped in dreary ignorance, they enthrone them- 
selves on content and defy the world. Why is it? 
It's a pretty little psychological problem which, by 
careful study, I hope some day to solve." 

He found himself now in a position to continue his 
studies. The room was occupied by Miss Elise 
Downey, a stenographer. She was blond, by birth, 
and of a perfect complexion, by purchase. She had 
blue eyes, like a doll's, and she overshot the height of 
fashion in her dress. Her smile was eternal. Her 

' :!'l 

I in 



voice went into the nasal on her high notes, and it was 
always on a high note that she ended her sentences. 

"Blond-headed, boneheaded, and garrulous — but 
good-hearted," he had described her on a previous 
occasion, and had added: "I wonder why she is good- 
hearted. I wish I knew." 

" Good afternoon, Miss Downey," he greeted her, 
going slowly toward the typewTiter desk at which she 

"How do you do, Mr. Waller!" She made the re- 
sponse shoot up in linguistic sound, hke a ladder. 

"Is that high-minded, constructive statesman, Mr. 
Mannersley, around— or any other noble defender of 
the grog-shops.'" he inquired, swinging his cane and 

Miss Downey became indignant. 

"You shouldn't talk about Mr. Mannersley that 
way!" she objected. 

"You are a disappointment, Miss Downey," he 
sighed. "You, too, spring hotly to the defence of 
anybody who happens to be your payroll." 

"Oh, Mr. Waller!" She turned toward her note- 

"And Mr. Smith— has he been in?" 

"What Mr. Smith?" 

"The only Mr. Smith in the world — the somewhat 
energetic gentleman who'll make t . • skylights of the 
House rattle before he gets through." 


"Oh, that Mr. Smith!" Miss Downey's enthusiasm 
broke her record for staccato enunciation. "I'm just 
dying to see him. Madge Atkins— she works down 
in Congressman Blore's oflBce, you know— Madge 
says she's seen him. She says his shoulders are just 

Waller balanced himself against his cane and looked 
at Miss Downey in frank and open admiration. 

"Will you," he asked, "tell me something?" 

"Why, certainly, Mr. Waller!" 

"Now, then, do you believe life's worth living?" 

"Of course it is." 

"I thank you. If you have found it so, it must be 
so. I bow to your superior judgment." He bowed 
almost to the floor. "But Mr. Mannersley— is he 

"Yes, he's in, but he's engaged." 

"Then I'll wait." 

He took a chair at the table in the centre of the 
room. On his right was the door leading into Man- 
nersley's private office, and on the left another open- 
ing into the meeting room of the committee. 

He addressed another question to Miss Downey. 

"I beg your pardon," he said, in his most winning 
tone, "but do you drink?" 

"Oh, I take a cocktail whenever I go out to dinner, 
Mr. Waller." 

"You do? " His surprise seemed immense. 




"Why, certainly!" Her manner would have been 
the same if she liad slapped him on the wrist 


"Oh, you kno'.v everybody thinks you ain't exactly 
— well, swell, if you don't do that!" 

ChoUiewoUie looked at her in silence a few mo- 

"I was right," he assured her solemnly. "I've 
been right all along. These whisky people who say 
prohibition isn't worth anything because, while the 
dry territory grows, the per capita consumption of 
alcohol increases, have overlooked the real facts in 
the situation. You see, now, the women drink. Not 
so many years ago only the men drank. I must tell 
Smith about that." 

"All my girl friends drink — when they go out," 
she confided. "It gives you an appetite." 

"For what?" Cholliewollic, having asked the 
question without due consideration, hastened to say: 
"Never mind! For the food, of course." 

"Of course!" Miss Downey stabbed his ears with 
the exclamation. 

"B. don't let me keep you from your work," he 
apologized. "I am now about to wrap my legs around 
the greased cable of profound thought and sink into 
an abyss of reflection." 

And he did, until Smith came in. 

Waller watched him while he went to Miss Downey 


and asked her to take his card in to Mr. Mannersley. 
More than ever before, he seemed surcharged with 
vitality, tremendous strength. Cholliewollie, loung- 
ing in his chair, thought he looked like a man in some 
way supernaturally alive, tensed, as if expectancy had 
tuned him to the limit of human efficiency. It was as 
if a gorgeousness of virility was within him. 

"What's it all about.'" inquired the newspaper 
man, after Miss Downey had gone into Mannersley's 

"The line of duty." Smith wheeled toward him, 
swiftly brushing his hand across his hair. "I've 
come to make a last appeal to Mannersley. He and 
his committee are holding up this amendment. I've 
come to ask him for the action the people of the coun- 
try want." 

Waller sank deeper into his chair and became the 
picture of discouragement. 

"It's bewildering — benumbing," he said drearily. 
"Why don't you try to jump over the Washington 
monument — or make government clerks work — or 
train r dozen oysters on the half-shell to sing a Greek 

"I'm doing only the fair thing," Smith replied, 
unaffected by the other's tone. "If the ^-hairman 
of this committee is accessible always to tue lobbyists 
of the other side, why shouldn't he be told what we 
have to say?" 








"You overrate lobbyists," Waller replied calaily. 

"How so?" 

"Its a mistake that nearly everybody unfamil- 
iar with Washington makes. The thing's a joke. 
People talk of lobbyists as if they had some uncanny 
power, like Aladdin's wonderful lamp, with which 
they influenced statesmen's minds and caused the 
current of legislation to change its course. And, of 
all the so-called lobbyists, this whisky crowd is the 
worst. Why, they know nothing at all." 

"You go too far in your assumption that they don't 
count," Smith argued. 

"Not a bit of it. Just take a look at them — im- 
posing-looking overcoats, heavy walking-sticks, and 
wise looks ! They haunt the hotel lobbies and slouch 
through the corridors up here at the Capitol. That 
goes for all of them, the whisky crowd and all the 
rest. I've heard a lot about lobbying and what 
it does. But in the ten years I've been in Wash- 
ington I don't believe a lobbyist has ever changed a 

"That's a sweeping statement." 

"But not too sweeping. I tell yon, this crowd 
you have to contend with can't affect a vote — not a 
single vote ! They 're paid gossipers, salaried scandal- 
mongers — and that lets them out. They can't make 
Members listen to them. If they could, they wouldn't 
know what to say. If lobbying ever was worth any- 


thing in this town, it's been a lost art ever since I've 
been here." 

Miss Downey came in and went back to her seat. 

"Mr. Mannersley will see you in a few minutes," 
she informed Smith. 

"Why not now.?" asked Waller, with his first sign 
of impatience. "What's he doing? " 

Miss Downey rebuked him with tip-tilted nose as 
she replied: 

"He's in conference with Mr. Mitchell." 

"-Ubert Mitchell— the whisky man!" 

"Yes, Mr. Waller." 

"Ah." smiled Smith, "I thought they couldn't 
make Members listen to them!" 

"This is different." contended W^:ier. "The 
whisky people elected Mannersley. They got him 
in his home district. That's the only way the crooks 
can affect legislation nowadays, by bopping out and 
paying a man's campaign expenses. Outside of that, 
the only voice that sounds out imperiously in Wash- 
ington nowadays is the people's voice— really." 

"That," commented Smith, "brings me to my 
story of what I accomplished while I was in New 

York. I want to tell you " 

He paused, checked by the entrance of a man 
through the door that led into the meeting room 
of the committee. The newcomer, hesitating in the 
doorway, looked casually at Waller, and, from that. 

, 1 


: 'M 



stared at Smith. The men's eyes met and held for a 
long moment. The stranger wore a flashy blue suit 
that had in it a broad, lateral stripe of white. Above 
a vividly flowered vest he had spread a curious cravat 
of brilliant red. His derby was slanted to one side. 
He looked like a low type of professional gambler. 
There was about him nothing striking except his 
vulgarity, but something m his stare built the en- 
counter into a real scene. The hint of fear that 
had been in his eyes turned to effrontery. Standing 
there, perfectly still, his dissipated face a confession 
of sin, his clothing an outrage against good taste, his 
whole bearing an advertisement of weakness, he fi- 
nally lowered his gaze from Smith's and laughed. 

The insolence of it was so pronounced, so direct, 
that Smith looked questioningly to Waller. 

The stranger, a .smile of impudence still upon hii 
lips, turned to Miss Downey. 

"Where's Mr. MitcheU?" he asked. 

Miss Downey evidently had seen him before. 

"He's stiil with Mr. Mannersley," she replied 
coolly. She even forgot to end the sentence on a 
high key. 

"Don't guess I'll wait any longer, then," he an- 
nounced, going toward the door leading into the 

As he went out he turned his head so that he might 
see Smith once more. He laughed again, this time 


as if he felt some odd sort of embarrassment. He did 
not close the door after him, and Miss Downey rose 
quickly, as if by instinct, to shut it and keep out some 
unpleasant thing. 

"Who on earth was that?" Smith asked, turning 
to Waller. 

ChoUiewoUie showed real excitement. 

"I'd bet a million dollars," he said in a low tone, 
"that that fellow knows something about you — knew 
you years ago!" 

Smith did not reply. He had turned to meet 
Mannersley, wl o, followed by Albert Mitchell the 
lobbyist, was entering the room. 

! c ' 






1 1 

f i 

Mannehsley's bearing had in it nothing of cordi- 
ality. Halting after a step into the room, he looked at 
the agitator coldly, without either welcome or inquiry. 

"Good morning," Smith greeted him. 

" Well," he said, " what is it? " 

Waller, still lounging in his chair and watching the 
scene intently, saw that the insult in the Congress- 
man's voice stung Smith a little too much. He was 
afraid the agitator would lose control of the situa- 
tion. He went to his relief. 

"By the way, Mr. Mitchell," he drawled, as if 
trying to grasp a hazy recollection, "where was it you 
tended bar?" 

Mitchell, burly, red-faced, each of his fat features a 
distinct definition of what whisky may do for a man 
when absorbed daily in regular potations, scowled. 
Miss Downey, by a heroic effort, saved herself from 
a snicker. Even Smith smiled before he replied to 
Mannersley's question : 

"I have come to make a last appeal to you for 
action by this committee on the prohibition amend- 




Mitchell, maintaining his attitude back of the Con- 
gressman, devoted his attention to Smith. Waller's 
smile had not been affected by the scowl. 

"You know my position on that," Maunersley 
answered curtly. "And you know the position of a 
majority of the committee. It's useless to discuss it." 

"But is it.'" 


Mannersley turned on his heel. There came into 
Smith's voice enough of lommand to prolong the 

"At least," he said sharply, "you will permit me 
to give you my reasons for making this final appeal 
to you — particularly because there is connected with 
it a warning." 

Mannersley, facing hiir- again, appeared affronted. 

"A warning.'" 

"Say, rather," amended Smith, "a statement of 
what we intend to do." 

The Congressman knew enough of what Smith had 
done already. If there was something more coming, 
it would do no harm for him to know it. 

"Go ahead!" He assumed indifference. 
Waller, describing the thing afterward, said: 

"When Smith began to talk, he became immedi- 
ately clothed in the purple of sincerity. There was 
upon him the regality of earnestness. He was im- 
perious — an uncrowned king." 




The agitator's figure seemed, all of a sudden, more 
erect. The feeling back of his words chiselled his feat- 
ures to a finer pattern. 

"Then. Mr. Mannerslcy," he said, "I ask you and 
your committee to report favourably the resolution 
authorizing this amendment to the Constitution. I 
ask it of you, first, for financial rca.sons — money." 

He waved his hands widely. His smile was per- 

"That app. '-i to everybody — money. I ask you 
to do your share in putting liquor out of the way be- 
cause the cost to the public of caring for the crime, 
the pauperism, and the insanity caused by alcohol 
is more than two billion dollars every year. Two 
billions every year for housing and feeding and cloth- 
ing the world of wreckage that is the work of rum^ 
two billions of dollars every twelve months! And 
the total liquor bill of this country, the mere pur- 
chase price of the alcohol that is bought by the drink 
and in bottles and barr<-ls, is two billion dollars a year. 
Two billior.s every twelve months for the stuff that 
is drunk! There alono you have four bil" ions. Ah, 
don't smile your contempt! Those are figures that 
even the whisky people never have been able to dis- 
prove or combat. They are of official medical 
record. Nothing can go behind them. Add to that 
the reduced efficiency, the untimely deaths, the ca- 
reers ruined and cut short, the lack of employment, 


and you have the grand, coniraandinK total of six 
billions of dollars a year— six billions a year as the 
tribute this country pays to alcohol ! " 

Mitchell, shifting from one foot to the other, 
shrugged his big shoulders and laughi d. 

Smith, extending his right hand with lightning, 
like rapidity, accused him: 

"You cannot deny it! It has never been denied 
successfully ! That is what you. and the men like you. 
take away from the American people every year— six 
billions of dollars, six times more than is used to pay all 
the expenses of running this Government for a year." 
He turned to Mannersley, his head thrown slightly 
back, his chest expanded, his tense right arm com- 
pelling altentinn. 

"That's the money argument. Secondly, ^ pre- 
sent this thing to you from its moral aspects. Ninety- 
five per cen* of all the cases of lawlessness and crime 
that cro ur court dockets to-day were caused by 
men being . it back to lower levels of mentality and 
emotionalisn. by the use of whisky. Ponder that in 
your spare moments ! Out of the whisky bottles has 
come 95 per cent, of our national disgrace !" 

Mannersley stirred uneasily, like a soldier who 
realizes for the first time that bullets are falling too 
close about him. 

"Oh," he said impaUenUy. "I don't believe all this 




"Then," Smith challenged him, his voice sharp and 
quick, "you don't believe facts — facts and figures 
that have been published time and again, and never 

He advanced a step nearer to the Congressman. 

"Finally," he took up the story he had come to 
tell, "I speak in the name of charity — the women and 
the children." His smile was at the same time an 
appeal and a denunciation. " Mr. Mannersley, every 
evil thing that has been wiped out of existence has 
gone to destruction before the awful strength of 
woman's tears. Have not our women wept, enough.' 
Every lovely thing that has come into the world has 
been builded out of the fabric of women's dreams. 
Are not the dreams of the women to be realized? In 
this evil thing, as in all the others, the pra ?rs of the 
kneeling women will avail. Their tears ^annot be 
denied. Their dreams must be fulfilled." 

Mannersley started to interrupt, but Smith, his 
voice bell-like, his attitude heroic, swept on, refus- 
ing to be quieted. Two Members of the House and 
several employees in the building, attracted by the 
sound of the discussion, had opened the corridor door 
and were standing, silent, caught up by the imperious 
scene. Neither Mannersley nor Smith knew that they 
were there. Waller wrote about it afterward for his 

"Think of it, Mr. Mannersley ! " his words rang out. 




"You stand there, a whisky agent at your back, and 
utilize your official position to uphold the thing that 
starves children and impoverishes men — the thing 
that some day may break the hearts of your own 
daughters. It is useless to deny it. It is folly to 
call it by any other name. The statistics of inves- 
tigators and the voice of your own conscience must 
be in accord. There is no escape from it! It is 
written on the face of this country — that whisky, the 
thing you defend, is our national disgrace, our foe, 
and our degradation. I have given you my argu- 
ments — the money, the sin, the misery. I ask you: 
what is your answer? " 

He fell back a step, waiting. Miss Downey, sur- 
rendering to the spell of what he had said, placed her 
arms on the desk and, lowering her face into them, 
sobbed. The sob was almost a groan. The group 
in th° corridor doorway was motionless, like figures 
on a piece of tapestry. 

"And the right of personal liberty," Mannersley 
answered him. his voice cold and cynical, his manner 
reluctant, as if he argued unwillingly with the man 
confronting him, "the right of personal liberty, 
which is the keystone in the arch of our Government, 
our democracy? What of that?" 

Indignation took hold of John Smith — indignation 
and scorn. 

"Personal liberty!" he made the phrase a scourge. 




! i 

"An argument for murder and a motto for anar- 
chists ! The cry of the coward— the refuge of the ras- 
cal! Mr. Mannersley, when will you realize that 
there is no such thing as personal liberty? When 
wiJ' you, and those like you, understand that no- 
where under the stars of heaven can there be such a 
thing as personal liberty in the sense in which you 
have just profaned it? None of us can do as he 
pleases. Each of us is bound to many others by the 
golden chains of duty, the beautiful bonds of sym- 
pathy. Separate us and we are grains of sand, 
blown hither and thither by the winds of v iidness, 
mere shadows that pass and leave behind nothing 
that is good, nothing that is strong. You are your 
brother's keeper. Deny that, and j'ou deny all 
decency, all government, all civilization. You are 
your brother's keeper. You are!" 

He paused, his right hand dropping to his 

"So that's what you had to say?" Mannersley 
attempted to disregard him. 

Smith smiled a little wearily. 

"Surely," he said, "it is enough?" 

"Quite," the Congressman replied dryly. "And, 
of course, it doesn't change the situation. We shall 
not report the resolution. You know that." 

"You won't?" 

There was in Smith's tone the promise of menace. 



Mannersley, checking the move he had made to 
turn away, laughed at him : 

"Certainly not!" 

" Then — one moment, Mr. Mannersley ! We'll put 
this resolution through the House, through Congress, 
in spite of you ! Do not delude yourself with the idea 
that eight or ten men can stand in the way of the 
wishes of the nation. Your committee will hold its 
first meeting in the first week of December, the be- 
ginning of the next session of Congress. And we 
will make you report that resolution — compel you! 
You will report it because, on the day of your meet- 
ing, there will be on the outside of the Capitol thou- 
sands, tens upon tens of thousands, of men and women 
demanding that you do this thing." 

He turned, with one of his flaslilike movements, 
toward Waller. 

"That's your story for to-morrow. Waller," he de- 
clared, exultation in his manner. "In a little more 
than a month from to-day the multitude, the troopers 
of temperance, from every state in the Union, will 
thunder at the doors of the Capitol, will drive this 
committee to do the will of the public." 

Mannersley, without making any sort oi a reply, 
turned away and went back into his office with 
Mitchell. Before the door closed, the Congressman's 
voice was heard : 

"Crazy talk! He hasn't the money to " 


Smith turned again to Waller. He was uplifted 
still by the "regality of earnestness." 

"Money!" he triumphed. "They've used that 
against us always. But they're through with that- 
through! I'm not afraid of their money. Money! 
I've got money myself now— oceans of it. Their pes- 
tilence can no longer thrive on our poverty. I— John 
Smith— have the money to beat them!" 

He paused, conscious for the first time that the 
group in the doorway still hung on his words. 


Waller and Smith were walking across the great 
plaza to the east of the Capitol on their way from the 
House office building toward the agitator's office. 
On their right, as they walked, they could see the 
gold dome of the Library of Congress topping the 
russet trets, and on their left stood the portico and 
steps where the Presidents, newly elected and sur- 
rounded by the pomp and military display of their 
country, take the oath of their high office. Automo- 
biles aud pedestrians broke the monotony of the vast 
expaTise of asphalt, and occasionally a Member whom 
Smith and Waller knew spoke to them in passing. 

Smith walked with his strong, swinging stride, as 
if the exultation he had felt in Mannersley's offices 
were still upon him. 

"You're immense!" Waller remarked finally. 
"What you handed Mannersley in particular and the 
whisky crowd in general was about the classiest bowl- 
ing-out I ever heard." 

"It was only the truth," Smith said, smiling. 
"You merely had failed to realize how powerful is the 
truth about whisky." 




Waller's impatience and curiosity got the Hotter 
of him, in spite of liis apparent languid inditierence. 
Back of his drawl was a very lively interest. 

"About all this money," he said. "Can you tell 
me about that?" 

"Oh!" Smith exclaimed, apology in his voice. "Of 
course I can! I'm very proud of that. Not all of it 
can be published, but I want vou to know about 

"Where did you get it?" 

" You know the people who fight whisky hardest 
are those wiio themselves, or through their families, 
have been touched most nearly by its tragedy. 
Tragedies are great or small. Sorrow is a relative 
thing. But, of all the tragedies, of all the sorrows, 
the greatest I have ever seen is that of a big, strong 
man who sees his only son i ined before his eyes, and 
he unable to help. That's the trouble about the man 
who drinks. To him it is nothing. He endures the 
physical suffering, and, under the false ideas the 
alcohol gives him, he schools himself to a perfect in- 
difference toward criticism. But those who love him, 
ah. Waller, there is the sublimation of grief. The 
ones who love him— wife, father, mother, sister— they 
are the victims of mortification, vain regret, over- 
whelming grief. They see the sneers and the pity 
of the neighbours, realize the ruin that is being done. 
And the men of power who see their sons going 


downstream, striking the rocks, being battered, their 
strength knocked out of them, their mentality de- 
stroyed — theyare the ones who hate and curse whisky. 
You know that, don't you?" 

"Certainly," the newspaper man agreed. He was 
thinking of things he had seen in the police courts, 
stories he had heard in houses of death and in the 
divorce courts. 

"I found two such fathers in New York — great 
men, powers in the world. You know, Waller, you 
may talk about ambition and success and achieve- 
ment, but, when all's said and done, when a man 
looks for happiness, he's got to find it within the four 
walls of his own home. If he doesn't, he fiuds it no- 
where. Those two fathers, robbed of their happiness, 
despoiled of their sons, have given me the money to 
finance this march to Washington, this colossal dem- 
onstration that must make Congress do the right 

"How much have they given you.'" 

"One— million— dollars. One million! Think of 
that!" His eyes took on a new splendour. 

Waller stopped dead still, his eyes bulging. 

"A million dollars!" he echoed. "The thing's 

"I tell you the money's in the bank, five hundred 
thousand from each of them— half a million for each 
one's vengeance against the thing that has made aU 


, '( 



their millions ashes in their mouths. It is not so 
incredible after all." 

"Then explain to me what your plan is." 

He did it in a few words: The railroad presidents 
were willing to cooperate with him. 

"The railroads," he said, in passing, "don't like 
drunkenness any more than I do. Drunken men have 
killed more people and caused more wrecks than all 
the rotten bridges, defective signals, and mistaken 
train orders in the world. You know, more than 
forty big railroad companies in this country to-day 
have it as a rule that whenever an employee is seen 
taking a drink he is at once discharged. EflSciency 
doesn't come out of the bottle." 

The railway expert had made the calculations. 
For a few thousand dollars over a million he could 
bring to Washington a crowd of thirty-seven thou- 
sand five hundred men and women, each state having 
its delegation and representation. That was what 
he would do, securing the coSperation of all the pro- 
hibition organizations to get the delegations together, 
to distribute the tickets, and to make the scheme work 

"We pay for the transportation of thirty-seven 
thousand," he concluded, waving both his arms as he 
always did when excited; "and the power of the 
cause, the fever of excitement, the rignteousness of 
the thing, will bring as many more. They will come 


from everywhere, from Maine to the Pacific Coast, 
from Chicago to New Orleans. The whole nation 
will knock on the Capitol's doors. The thing, I tell 
you, is irresistible!" 

"What day will this be?" 
"Thursday, the 10th of December." 
"Why that day?" 

"That will be the regular meeting day of the Com- 
mittee on Amendments to the Constitution." 
"What part of all this can I publish?" 
"All of it, except the story about the donors of the 
money. Just say that the million has been given by 
men interested in the movement. They made that 

Waller thought a moment. They had crossed 
the plaza and were turning down the street to the 
north of the Capitol grounds on the way to Smith's 

"It's unprecedented, the biggest thing of its kind 
in history," the newspaper man's sense of the dra- 
matic gave the verdict. " Why, it will be better than 
an inauguration crowd. The effect of it will be 
beyond description." 

"It will win the fight," Smith said, his confidence 

He was not dismayed by the immense amount of 
detail work that it necessitated. Keeping his eyes 
always on the final result, the intermediate stages did 

,*!■ . 




not worry him in the^least. He had solved the prob- 
lem. That was enough. 

At the entrance to his office building he paused, 
waiting for Waller to speak. 

"I'll tell you something," CholliewoUie drawled, 
a little reluctant to intrude his advice. "I've a sug- 

"Tell it to me," Smith said heartily. 
"Well," he said, swinging his cane slowly before 
him like a pendulum to regulate the flow of his words, 
"if I were running this fight, I wouldn't fool with this 
committee any longer." 
"What would you do?" 

"I'd have some Member, one of the men on your 
side, rise on the floor of the House and move to dis- 
charge the committee from further consideration of 
the resolution and to pass the resolution at once." 
Smith reflected. 

"That would do it. wouldn't it?" he said at last. 

"Why, of course. The House would have to vote 

on that motion. Under the rules, it couldn't avoid 

it. And it would pass the resolution. That would 

be your victory ;ight there. You don't think there 

would be any doubt about the outcome with fifty 

or si.\ty thousand people massed outside demanding 

what was to be done?" 

"Certainly not." 

"I tell you," Waller contributed the fruits of his 


observation, "there's nothing like a long and well- 
sustained howl from the populace to make your up- 
stage, constructive statesman do what he should 

"You're right," Smith assented. "I think I'll 
take your advice." 

Again Waller hesitated before taking his leave. 
He was gazing out toward the great lawn in front of 
the Capitol, where the long shadows fell black on 
the grass. 

"Now that fellow with the beady eyes, up there in 
the committee room, the fellow who gave you that 
insolent laugh " 

Smith waved aside the suggestion he knew was 

"Do you know him?" ChoUiewollie asked rather 


"And you don't think he has anything on you— 
anything disagreeable?" 

"Of course not." 

"All the same," he said, shaking hands with Smith, 
"I'm going to look him up. I want to see him again. 
I have an idea I'd like to interview him. I'd like 
to know why he's here, hy he was in Mannersley's 
rooms, why he wanted to see Mitchell. His eyes com- 
mand my attention." 

Smith laughed. 



"You'll be throwing away your time," he advised. 

"Oh, no." Waller, now down the steps, laughed 
back at him. "He'll be interesting. Some of the 
most interesting characters I ever encountered were 



Smith, arriving that evening at his apartment, 
found awaiting him a letter from Edith Mallon. 

He told her afterward: 

"It is the only real love letter ever written." 

It was signed "Edith Mallon," and, without pref- 
ace or introduction, this is what it said : 


You are Fale if, fashioning in every reddened dawn the 
flame-tipped spear of courage, you take the field. 

And, singU-handed, stand against the enfilade of adverse, 

And, wearing aU the armour of self-faith, desert the camp 
of yesterday's defeats to rush the ramparts of to-day's success. 

You, rich in the lore you Uarned from lonely nig! Is and 
hungered days, burst the bonds of sightless years, break down 
the barriers precedent has built, and fling into the lap of life a 
Discovery — and men cry Fate I 

You, with bleeding fingers and aching heart and indomi- 
table will, crush from the bosom of the rock-ribbed hills their 
stores of gold — and men say Fate! 

You, pursuing through the years the fading tints of sunset, 
and hunting for dimmer purples in the cups of violets, hang 
upori the waUs of Art afresh and unsuspected glory— and the 
cry is Fate! 





You, capturing the woman who made a mock of men, take 
and wear her forever like a rose upon your breast — and again 
the cry is Fate! 

There is no Fate — no Atropos :' cv ' the thread of your en- 
deavour — no blind woman's skirt behind which the blackness 
of failure and defeat may hide. You are a conqueror by in- 
heritance, put here to fight, to besiege, to thunder in the charge 
— not to sit in idle ease among the flowers already blooming, 
but to snatch from the high cliffs of Impossibility blossoms 
closer to the gardens that the angels keep. 

Tlie thing called Fate is the soul of you — swifter than the 
flight of wings, stronger than the blows of accident, a radiance 
in a heaven star-hung with promise. 

If you will, you can bend the frame of Fortune and hang on 
the palsied limbs of Destiny a robe more gorgeous than the 
world has ever seen. 

You are your own to-morrow. 

There is no Fate. 

He read it three times before he put it down and 
went to the window to look down on the lighted 

"The faith of women!" he said, in a reverent 
whisper; "their wonderful faith!" 



Near the foot of Pennsylvania Avenue, a few 
hundred yards from the Peace Monument, there are 
small hotels whcri man with no baggage and a very 
little money may socure lodging of a sort. In a back 
room on the third floor of one of these hostelries a 
person with beady eyes lolled in a rickety armchair, 
his stockinged feet resting on the tabic in front of 
him. He had unbuttoned his vi\idly flowered vest, 
which let the full expanse of his garish red cravat 
riot down his chest. He had removed his derby hat. 
His purplish face had assumed a deeper hue than 
usual, and, as he inhaled .ind blew out the smoke of a 
cigarette, the sound of his breath was stertorous. 
Occasionally a smile, expressive of animal comfort, 
moved the disfigured features in a peculiar way. On 
the whole, the person with the beady eyes was en- 
joying life. He felt at ease. 

There had been no warning noise of any kind in the 
corridor outside when the door opened, disclosing 
the face and figure of Mr. Charles Waller, who, with- 
out ceremony, entered the room. He had never 
appeared quite so languid, quite so slow, or quite so 





W'^\^ ' 

indifferent. He seemed bored to the point of ex- 
tinction. As he stood for a moment, surveying the 
room and its occupant, he even neglected to swing 
his cane. Life, it seemed, rested upon him as a bur- 

He was followed by a uniformed policeman, who 
closed the door quietly. 

The man in the armchair did not speak. He 
merely looked at the intruders. There was the 
picture for fully three minutes — he with the beady 
eyes motionless and silent, Waller still and interroga- 
tive, and the policeman like a statue. The man in 
the chair inhaled a puff of smoke and watched his 
visitors. Each waited for speech from the other. 
There was none. 

Waller was the first to move. He stepped forward 
slowly and. in a manner that had the air of extreme 
consideration, grasped the ankles of the beady-eyed 
man and removed the feet from the table. The man 
in the chair submitted to that without sign of either 
pleasure or displeasure. Only, he became more wary, 
more alert. There was no longer any stertorous 
sound in his breathing. 

The policeman, removing his helmet and keeping 
it in his left hand, sat down on the side of the bed. 
Waller, drawing a straight-backed chair to the table, 
took from his pocket a pack of cards and began a 
game of Canfield solitaire. He devoted to it all his 





interest. The policeman, most of the time, looked 
straight ahead of him at the blank wall opposite. 

The man in the armchair lit a fresh cigarette, 
and, as he tossed away the match, spun it from his 
forefinger and thumb so that it made a droning noise 
through the air. Little beads of perspiration began 
to show on the upp r part of his forehead near the 
roots of his hair. Once he rubbed his stockinged feet 
one against llie other. 

Waller, having "gotten out" five cards, ran the 
deck together and shuffled it eight times with great 
care. Then he began all oVer again. Neither he 
nor the policeman looked at the man in the chair. 
The newspaper man's luck at Canfield was decidedly 
poor. His second attempt got out only four cards. 
He shuffled the pack more slowly the next time, as if 
he calculated how much money he would have lost 
if he had been playing for real money. 

He was in the midst of his fifth game when the 
beady-eyed man reached down slowly, and, pulling 
his shoes toward him, began to put them on. When 
he had them on and had laced them up, he rose to his 
feet. There were now little beads of perspiration 
on his nose. Nobody said anything, but the police- 
man went to the door in a leisurely manner, locked 
it, and dropped the key into his pocket. When he 
had resumed his place on the side of the bed, the 
man with the red cravat sank back into the arm- 




chair and laughed awkwardly. It was the first sound 
that had come from anybody's mouth. 

Waller, finishing that game, shuflBed the cards and 
began dealing again. The policeman fanned himself 
slowly with his helmet. It was oppressive in the 
room. The man they were visiting began to look 
swiftly from one to the other. Fear got hold of his 
features unmistakably. 

WV.en ChoUiewoUie, still absorbed in the cards, 
was in the midst of his eleventh game, the strain 
became too great. 

"Say ! " ventured the man in the armchair. " What 
do you fellows want?" 

The policeman made no sign that he had heard. 

Waller finished his game and began to shufiSe again 
before he glanced casually toward the man who had 
spoken, with the suggestion: 

"Of course you'll tell us." 

"TeU you what?" 

The beady-eyed man took a brilliantly bordered 
handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his 
purplish face. He did it as if he had wanted to do it 
for a long time. 

"What you know about John Smith — naturally " 

Waller started the deal for a new game. 

"Look here! I don't kuow anything about any 
John Smith." 

Waller, his movements excee<lingly languid, laid 



down the cards, pushed his hat back a trifle on his 
forehead, and, leaning forward, picked up his cane 
and struck the beady-eyed man a sharp blow across 
the knees. 

"Don't lie!" he said, languor still in his voice. 

The man who had been struck jumped to his feet. 
As he gained the upright posture, the policeman 
sprang at him and thrust him back into the chair. 

Waller laid down the cane and took up the cards. 

"Oh, yes, you do," he said. 

"I tell you I don't!" The purplish face assumed 
a mottled look. "And I ain't going to stand for 
this! Coming in here with a cop and assaulting a 
man in his own room ! " 

Waller turned slowly toward the policeman. 

"Flenncr," he said, "show him the picture." 

The policeman unbuttoned his coat and took from 
his breast-pocket a photograph, which he held up so 
that the other could see it. It was a photograph of 
the beady-eyed man. 

"Where did you get t'lat?" asked the original of 
the picture. 

Waller answered: 

"Out of a little room in a big, white, marble build- 
ing at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Four- 
teenth Street, where police headquarters is located — 
out of the Rogues' Gallery." 

The mottled face became perceptibly more puffy, 

,1 1 



Waller's manner changed entirely. His languor 
and boredom slipped from him as if he had put off an 
outer garment. He became quick, lithe, sudden, as 
he slapped the cards down on the table and wheeled 
full-face toward the beady-eyed man. 

"See here!" he said incisively. "Vour name's 

bimpson, and you did time in California three years 

ago. Now don't try any funny business with us. 

Out with it! If you don't want trouble, tell it to me!" 

Simpson grew sullen. 

"Well, what is it you want to know?" he replied 

"You know whai I want to know," Waller com- 
manded him crisply. "Now tell it to me. What 
do you know about John Smith'" 


"Don't lie! What is it.= " 

Simpson, stirring in l,i.s chair until it creaked 
glowered at Waller. 

"Honest to God," he said roughly, "I don't know 
who you mean. I ain't never known any John 

Waller leaned forward and laughed. There was 
in his laughter nothing but threat. 

"The man you saw in Mannersley's committee 
rooms to-day! That's the John Smith I'm talking 
about. What do you know about him.' " 

"I've told you once," Simpson's shifty eyes looked 


at both Waller and the policeman. "Not a thing 
That's honest." 

Waller began to pump questions at him. 

"Why did you come to Washington?" 

"Well, I might as well be here as anywhere else." 

"You're a mechanical engineer, aren't you?" 


"Ever do any work.'" 

"Whenever I can get it." 

" Where do you get your money.' Where did you 
get the money to pay for this room?" 

"I got it working in Bluefields, West Virginia. 
That's where I got it!" 

"When are you going away from here?" 

Simpson defied him: 

"Whenever I get good and ready!" 

Waller laughed again. 

"Oh, no!" he said. "You're going to-night if 
you don't tell me what ynu know about Smith. You 
knew him once. Don't lie! Tell it to me, here and 
now, or out you go to-night." 

"Who's going to make me go.'" 
Waller jerked his finger toward Flenner. 

"Suspicious character," said Flenner laconically. 
Simpson's half-pent rage burst forth. 
"Then, by God!" he said hoarsely, "I'll go. I 
tell you I don't know anything about John Smith or 
no other Smith. You guys are crazy!" 





Waller examined the purplish face a long time. 
Then he rose, straightened his hat on his head, and 
stood meditative, swinging his cane in front of him 
slowly. All of a sudden his hand shot out and he 
rapped Simpson's knees for the second time. 

"Tell me!" he thundered. 

The voice, more than the blow, frightened Simpson. 

"I would— if I knew," he said thickly. "Honest 
to God! But I don't know. You fly cops must be 

Waller walked to the door and back. 

"Flenner," he said "t last, "out he goes to-night." 

Flenner stepped over to Simpson, and, bending 
down, tapped him with his fingers on the chest. 

" You're not wanted in this town — see? It's some- 
where else or a cell. Get that now! If you're here 
at six o'clock in the morning, you'll go down to Occo- 
quan, where they make you do a lot of work for very 
little food." 

A whimper came into Simpson's voice. 

"I guess I got to go," he whined. 

Waller was already at the door. 

"No guess about it!" cautioned Flenner. "You 

The policeman produced the key and unlocked the 
door. As he followed Waller out, he looked back to 

"Get it right now! Go!" 



When they had left the hotel, Flcnner said: 
"That was a long chance to take, Mr. Waller. If 

we didn't know you so well, we never could have done 


The pohceman was not enti elv in Waller's confi- 
dence. He was wondering what it was all about. 

"He knows," Waller said stubbornly. "I haven't 
a nose for news for nothing. I tell you he knows! 
Why else would he be here now? Why would he be 
following Albert Mitchell around? He knows. That's 
what makes the story complete." 

"Well, suppose he does know," hazarded Flenner. 
"What do you think he knows?" 

"Oh, a whole lot," Waller replied vaguely. "He 
knows, and I'll get hold of it yet." 


Congress had adjourned, and a week had passed 
since the publication of Cliolliewollie's article de- 
scribing in detail the plan for the prohibition "on to 
Washington" movcnient. Every newspaper in the 
country was carrying daily stories on it now. From 
Washington dispatches went ,,,it setting forth the 
tremendous amount of work feuuth had to do in order 
to arrange for an unprecedentedly large Jenionstra 
tion which was only a little less than five weeks off. 
From other cities and the smaller towns came the 
stories of how the clergy and the aides of the men's 
and women's prohibition organizations were working 
hand-in-glove and with desperate enthusiasm to make 
the thing a success. 

John Smith became thj topic of conversation 
everywhere, in Washington, on railroad trains, and in 
hotel lobbies throughout the country. Railroad men 
checked up his calculation that he would use the one 
million dollars so as to bring to Washington approxi- 
mately seven hundred and eighty people from each 
state in the Union. This was based on ..le arrange- 
ments with the railroads, which meant that they 


would carry each passenger both ways for the price 
of one straight fare. The experts examined the fig- 
ures and found them correct. 

Hotel managers figured on how many guests they 
could accommodate, and finally were persuaded that 
they would have to resort to the Inauguration ex- 
pedient of putting cots in the hallways. Boarding- 
house keepers— those of the best class and those who 

spent the first part of each day in dingy wrappers 

began their dreams of unexpected prosperity. The 
Washington Chamber of Commerce, through its vari- 
ous committees, went to work to get the matter of 
handling the crowd down to a system, prepared cards 
showing hotel and boarding-house rates, and began 
to call for volunteers to help in entertaining and locat- 
ing strangers who would come into the city without 
any knowledge of where to seek accommodations. 

The Police Department announced that it would 
have to have the help of the organized militia of the 
District of Columbia in policing and patrolling the 
streets and avenues on the day of the parade. 

At first the newspaper correspondents, assembling 
each evening in the National Press Club— where 
they say what they really think— confided to each 
other their conviction that the plan was impossible, 
and a few minutes later wrote long, serious dispatches, 
declaring that it would be the greatest thing of its 
kind ever done. But even their cynicism was short- 




lilli !!:• 


lived. It became too evident that, back of the move- 
ment, was a marvellous personality which produced 
results. The arrangements were going forward with 
machinelike precision. The things mapped out in 
the little suite of offices in the shadow of the Capitol 
were being carried to fulfilment in Los Angeles, 
Kankakee, Galveston, St. Paul, Seattle, Baltimore — 
everywhere. It was impossible to believe otherwise 
than that the greatest army ever assembled for the 
purpose of championing a reform cause was coming 
into the National Capital. 

Leaders and representatives of the whisky interests 
were practically forgotten despite their success now 
and then in getting into certain papers articles re- 
flecting on John Smith, questioning his past history, 
and, in one or two instances, boldly asserting that he 
had behind him a criminal record. But they could 
not stop the interest in John Smith. No matter 
what he had been, he was now the head and shoulders 
of a brand-new thing. No matter what he had done, 
he was now doing something that had never been at- 
tempted in the United States. He had announced 
that he would throw against the doors of the Capitol 
such a crowd as would persuade every legislator under 
the Dome that the nation wanted and demanded the 
abolition of the liquor traffic. And, according to all 
signs and evidence, he was going to succeed. 

Of course, through the chorus of comment ran the 



argument as to whether the demonstration would have 
the effect he desired. 

" Can he get away with it? " was the question often- 
est heard. " Will Congress submit to what is, after 
all, a species of bullying.'" 

ChoUiewoIIie answered that. 

"Get away with it?" he drawled. "Why, the 
thing's as good as done already. The whisky men 
talk about the men whom they control in the House. 
Well, you know, there's such a thing as losing control." 

Smith's work was incessant. The splendid energy 
he possessed was utilized to the full. Always at his 
office by eight o'clock in the morning, he seldom left 
it before midnight. There were several occasions 
when he stayed at his desk until much later. Waller 
put a stop to that. 

"This thinj^'<i ?oing to get heavier as the weeks go 
on, instead <.: ii-Lt. r," he advised. "Take some cure 
of yourseli now. iou won't later on. You must be 
in shape for the big show." 

"I don't think I could ever break down," Smith 

"I doubt it myself," Waller agreed, "but you don't 
want to take any chances." 

ChoUiewoUie was of incalculable assistance to him 
in connection with the publicity given to the project. 
It was he who got together all the facts as they devel- 
oped each day and distributed them to the corps of 




correspondents. Moreover, his knowledge of news- 
papers and their effect on the public mind enabled 
him to suggest what things should be printed and 
what should not be given out for publication. The 
volume of this sort of work in connection with an 
undertaking that affects every community in the 
country is vast. With the other things he had to do. 
Smith was bound to have his aid. Smith himself 
could not find time to give out to the various writers 
the interviews they called for. Finally, at Waller's 
suggestion, he made it a rule to receive them all in a 
body, once in the morning and once at six o'clock in 
the evening. 

The agitator had not seen Edith Mallon since the 
day they had stood on the edge of the river and she 
had showed him so unmistakably that she loved him. 
Her letter — the "love letter" — he had not answered. 
He realized that she had meant it as a kind of tem- 
porary farewell, a parting message that she believed, 
that she had faith, an assurance that in the end the 
matters between them would come out as they should 
come out, and that, until then, she as well as he, 
would be patient. 

Three days after he had seen her, he had called a 
messenger boy and had sent her a note. It had con- 
sisted only of the one line: 

" Your face is ever before me." 


She did not reply to that. He had not expected 
it. And afterward he had regretted sending it. He 
had done it on the impulse of the moment, jielding 
to the longing he felt to be in communication with 
her, to let her know that always, no matter what his 
business might be, his thoughts were with her and 
about her. 

Waller had told him that the Mallons, like other 
Senatorial households, had decided to stay on in 
Washington, since the late adjournment of Congress 
made the term between the old and the new session 
so short. Mallon, not being up for reelection, had 
had nothing to take him back to Ohio. 

In his own heart Smith felt that, as Edith had 
written him, he was his own to-morrow. 

"I shall go through with .his work which is at 
hand," he told himself, walking to his apartment 
early one morning. "From that, there may come— 
who knows?" 

He thought that success in the one might mean 
happiness in all tnings. Then he smiled as he re- 
membered one of Cholliewollie's remarks: 

"All newspaper men and poUticians arc optimists. 
They have to be. If they weren't they wouldn't be 
crazy enough to stick to their jobs." 


On Thuksdat of each week Miss Mallon put her 
forenoon at the disposal of "the girls" — girls who, 
for any reason, wanted her help or advice. She be- 
lieved in personal charity — the right word at the 
right time, the revival of hope, the strengthening of 
purpose, the taking hold again of high ideals. 

"If they want to find work," she explained, "I 
can often help them. If they are in search of con- 
solation, I can always help them. Women are so 
brave, but they have so much to fight against. Theirs 
is never the short, sharp struggle, the doing of big 
and startling things. Their fate is the little drudg- 
eries, the heartbreaking trifles. Girls, all girls, are 

Miss Mallon's "Thursday for girls" had become a 
Washington institution. No girl was refused admit- 
tance. None ever failed to see her. 

Her first visitor on this particular Thursday was 
Mrs. Griswold Kane. 

Mrs. Kane added a general flufBness to the atmos- 
phere — fluffiness and gossip. She knew everybody 
and everything. That, she frequently explained, was 


the essence of real living— that, and to know always 
that men were perfectly and absolutely unreliable. 

"History," she confided to Edith, sinking into a 
chair so big that it accentuated in an absurd manner 
herchubbiness, "repeats itself in a most annoying 
way. Things began to happen in this part of the 
world when one John Smith came over here from 
England. Now, everything that happens in Wash- 
ington revolves around John Smith." 

"What have you heard?" asked Edith, recognizing 
the generality as an introduction to specific informa- 

"I have heard a most wonderful thing, my dear. 
It is complete in plot, detail, and theme." 

"What is it?" 

"You are engaged to be married to John Smith, 
and, as your father dislikes him intensely, you see 
him only by stealth— at long intervals." 

Edith looked troubled. 

"I hope," she said seriously, "he will not hear 
It. It would be too bad for such gossip to disturb 
him at such a time as this when he needs all his 
thought and all his energy for his work." 

"You hope it don't disturb him!" Mrs. Kane's 
eyes became very round with a real astonishment. 
"How about its disturbing you? " 

"It doesn't at all." 

"But I hear it everywhere! Mrs. Grover told 




me — and Colonel Grimshaw — and Mrs. Ellis — and 
that Miss — oh, what's her name? She's single, but 
at the same time doubleminded — Miss Tevers — Car- 
rie Tevers. And Elizabeth Beaureman — and — and 
the whole of Washington!" 

This time Edith smiled. 

"Really," she said, "it doesn't annoy me in the 

"Edith Mallon, do you mean to tell me you'd 
think of marry'r'g a reformer — this agitator?" Mrs. 
Kane's astonish lent was stupendous. 

"He hasn't asked me, Nellie." Edith gave her the 
information with a little laugh. 

"But if he does ask you?" 

"If I tell you, you won't tell? " 


"If he asked me, I'd marry him to-morrow — this 
minute — any time." 

"But you don't know who he is!" 

"I don't care." 

"And j'ou love him?" 

"Don't you think so?" 

Mrs. Kane began to laugh, and changed her mind. 
She leaned far back in the ridiculously large chair 
and looked at Edith with a glance that, for once, 
was preternaturally solemn. Something like tears — 
something like the mist after rain — came like a cur- 
tain over the soft blue of her eyes. Then, impul- 


sively, she sprang up and went over to Edith and 
kissed her. 

"Anyway," she said, a little wildly, "I think 
you've more sense about it than anybody else in the 
world. My God! I get so tired of these imitation 
men with their money and these other men with their 
imitation money that I could scream! What I'd 
like to have is whi.i I once had-some man to make 
me feel that he was the whole world, some man with 
real thoughts and real arms, somebody to laugh at 
me when I tried to tyrannize over him, somebody to 
make me know that I was nothing but a woman-for 

Edith, looking up at her, was tremendously sur- 

"Why, Nellie." she said, taking one of her hands, 
I never— I never dreamed you thought this way 
about — things." 

Mrs. Kane laughed, to cover up the fact that she 
was ashamed of having shown so much real feeling. 
^^ "Oh, you're like all the rest," she jeered lightly. 
"You think because a woman's a widow she has 
solved the problem of how to turn her heart to stone! 
But you take my advice: The man's the thing. 
There isn't anything else in the world that matters 
that much." She snapped her fingers by way of 
Edith patted the hand she held. 



"Of course," she said, "you're right. And now you 
know why I don't like to think of his being annoyed 
by this crazy talk about an engagement." 

Mrs. Kane went back to her chair and sat down. 
She wore an air of contrition, as if she had broken her 
code or infringed on her rules by exposing her own 

"Tell me," she asked, putting lightness into the 
query; "you think he's going to ask you to marry 
Edith laughed whole-heartedly. 
"I feel very sure." 

"Well," Nellie gave it as her critical judgment, 
"I don't know what the man's past has been, but I 
will say this: he has a glorious future ahead of him." 
Wales lifted the hangings at the door. 
"Miss Downey," he announced. 
Elise made her entrance exactly as she had built 
it up in her own mind and rehearsed it before her own 
bedroom mirror. There was in it only one flaw: 
something in her manner indicated vaguely that she 
regarded with awe the wooden-faced Wales. She was 
glad, it appeared, to get past him. 

"I wanted to see Miss Mallon," she said, her con- 
cluding high note in perfect working order. 
Edith went forward to meet her. 
"I am Miss Mallon," she said, "and this is Mrs. 


Elise shook hands with Edith and, in the midst of 
it, gave Nellie a bow slantwise. 

" Glad to meet you ! " She made the statement in- 
clude both women. 

Edith motioned her to a chair, which she took 
carelessly, not expecting the resilience of the springs, 
which let her down too far and bounced her back too 

"I didn't come to ask for any help"— she began 
the conversation as she had intended beforehand— 
"fact is, I came to give some." 

She looked at Airs. Kane and turned again to 

"Could I have a confidential talk with you?" she 
inquired blandly. 

Her skirt was too narrow, and the unexpected 
action of the chair-springs had resulted in lifting it 
too high. The lack of ease that she felt on this 
account hurried her to the main point. 

Nellie rose at once. 

"Why, of course," she said. "I'm going into the 
music-room . Shall I play, Edith ? " 

"Yes, please." 

Miss Mallon turned to Miss Downey with a look 
of mquiry. Nellie, in the music-room, opened the 
piano and began on "Nights of Gladness." Elise 
tucked one of her blond locks back up under her 
little round hat and passed her hand over her right 





cheek. She was sure the purchased complexion was 

"Suppose I make a little explanation first?" she 

"Why, certainly," Edith ii Tced, really expecting 
some preliminary to a request for help of some kind. 

"Then, I'll tell you"^ — Elise leant forward in her 
chair and became confiding — "I've a lot of heart. 
You know what I mean, don't you.' I'm romantic. 
I mean I like real romance. It appeals to me. I 
suppose it appeals to any girl who's got real heart — 
don't you?" 

"Of course." Edith was all encouragement. 

"Well, that's me. I'm really romantic. I don't 
mean any of this mush the men try to hand you, but 
great, big heart events— the real things in life. They 
interest me. You take a girl with the right sort of 
feelings, and she likes love stories and things like 
that, don't she?" 

"Naturally." Miss Mallon was thinking that 
Miss Downey was paraphrasing in her own language 
some of the things Mrs. Kane had said. 

Elise's words flowed more and more freely. Miss 
Mallon, she decided, was like all other girls — with 

"And you can't fool a girl who's like that, can you? 
I mean her ideas and her intuitions. I've got heart 
and I've got intuitions. And I know I'm right. 


Intuitions make up some of this story I've got to 
tell you. You believe a girl who has real deep feel- 
ings knows things, don't you?" 

Elise was completely satisfied. 
"I knew you would! From all I'd heard about 
you, I knew you were all right. That's why I came 
—that, and I do love real romance! My name's 
Elise Downey, and I'm a stenographer in Congress- 
man Mannerslcy's offices when he's in lown." 
"Mr. Mannersley's?" 

For some reason which she could not explain then 
or afterward, Edith's attention was caught by the 
girl in a remarkable manner. She felt at once that 
what she was about to hear concerned herself nearly. 
"Yes, Mr. Mannersley's. That's why I'm here. 
You know, I know now, just as soon as I've looked at 
you, there ain't anything to that story about your 
being in love with him. There ain't— is there? " 

Elise's evident and deep concern took out of her 
question all its impertinence. 
Edith smiled. 

"No, nothing," she answered. 
"I'm so glad!" Elise sighed audibly. "It shows I 
was right. I tell you, a girl who has heart is almost 
always right. Now, I'll tell you— there's somebody 
in this town trying to ruin that Mr. Smith— you know 
the man they say you're in love with." 


"How do you mean — ruin him ? " Edith asked the 
question very slowly. 

"There's somebody that knows something about 
his past." 

"Who knows it?" This time it was the older 
woman who leaned forward. 

"A horrid man— a man named Simpson." 

"What does he know.' Tell me, child, what does 
he know?" 

Elise gave her opinion. 

"It's something awful," she said, her doll-like eyes 
looking like moons. 

Edith got up and went over and sat down beside 

"Something awful?" she questioned. 

"So awful that it's going to ruin Mr. Smith." 

Edith unconsciously grasped her by the arm. 

"Tell me! Tell me!" she said, a little fiercely. 
"What is it?" 

While Edith clung to her arm, Elise elaborated hev 

"Mr. Simpson was up in the oflSces looking for Mr. 
Mannersley. He said he hi ' something important 
to tell Mr. Mannersley. Then he ran into Mr. 
Mitchell, the whisky man, and I heard him tell Mr. 
Mitchell he knew who Mr. Smith was. I couldn't 
hear much because I was over at my desk in the corner 
and they talked low. Mr. Mitchell looked around 


in a minute and saw I was listening. So they went 
into the committee meeting-room and had a talk 
and then Mr. Mitchell left the Simpson man in 
there while he went in to talk to Mr. Mannersley. 
It was the day Mr. Smith came up there— and Mr. 

Waller was there, and " 

" You say Mr. Waller was there— when? " Edith's 
brows were drawn together. She was trying to vis- 
ualize everything Elise was saying. 

"Mr. Waller didn't hear any of the conversation. 
He came in a little ahead of Mr. Smith, but he saw 
the funny look Simpson gave Mr. Smith when he 
met him on his way out." 
Edith still had hold of the girl's arm. 
"Tell me!" she said tensely. "What is it you 
think this man Simpson knows? " 

"It's something about a woman— something dis- 
graceful." Elise made the statement positively. 

"Why do you say that? Tell me! Why do you 
say that?" 

"I caught the word 'woman' and something about 

'left' before they went into the next room," Elise ex- 

plaimng how she had worked out her theory. "And 

—and the rest was intuition— woman's intuition, you 

For a moment Edith was suspicious. It flashed 
into her mind that, for some reason, the agitator's 
enemies wanted to discredit him with her. 



"Why have you come to me with this storj-?" shr 
demanded, shaking Elise's arm. 

Elise looked at her in unfeigned amazement. 

"Why" — she took a great flight into the high notes 
— "you and Mr. Smith love one another, don't you? " 

Edith still was avid of information. 

"And that's why you came to me.^"' 

"Why, of course! Didn't I tell you I liked ro- 
mance, real romance.' Ain't I got a heart, deep feel- 
ings, and all that? Everybody knows you're crazy 
about him. And I don't blame you. His eyes are 
just dears' Ai li I snid to myself you ought to hear 
this story— and I couldn't go to him. But w ith you, 
being a woman, it was different." 

"Yes, of course," Edith agreed dully. She was 
gropiiig for ideas, some thought of what to do or say. 

"I know it's important," Elise insisted, "because 
Mr. Mitchell came to see me day before yesterday 
and took me out to dinner last night. He bought me 
three cocktails and wanted to buy me some more, 
but I wouldn't take 'em. I ain't been under the 
influence of alcohol — that is, strictly speaking — in all 
ray life." 

"What did he want?" 

"He wanted to find out what I had heard, how 
much I had heard, of that talk in the office that day 
between him and Mr. Simpson. But I was too wise 
for him. Indeed, I was. You see, as soon as he 


began talking about it, I knew it must be important. 
So that made me shut up. I let on that I hadn't 
heard a word. I thought, as it was important, I 
ought to tell it to you because ^ou love the man. 

"Yes, oh, yes; I see." 

It did not occur even in a remote way to Edith to 
deny or discuss licr love for John Smith. All she 
sensed was that the girl before her had told her a 
story which might mean his ruin and hers — the de- 
struction of their hope of happiness. And blindly, 
vaguely, the pity of it came home to her. It was as 
if she had heard the story of a plot to stab a man 
in the back, to strike him from the dark — a great, 
strong man who, at tiiat moment, was doing a 
thing which commanded the attention of the whole 
country, a thing that must result beneficently for the 

"You think," she said, "il is about a woman?" 

"Yes. And I think they're going to show him up. 
That's what I think." 

"It may be. It may be." 

"I'll tell you why. When I wouldn't tell Mr. 
Mitchell I had heard anything, he was awful impolite 
about it, real rude. He said I thought I was awful 
slick about it, not to tell him everything I'd heard, 
but there wasn't any use in me thinking I could help 
anybody else with it. He said if I tried to interfere. 





it wouldn't matter, because they had th*? goods on 
Smith. That was what he said." 

Edith took her hand from Elise's arm. 

"I think I know what to do," she said, with no 
great show of confidence. " I think I do. You won't 
— of course you won't say anything about this to 
anybody else — anybody else at all?" 

The insinuation hurt Elise's pride. 

"Don't ask me that!" she answered indignantly. 
"Have I said anything about it.' Didn't I come up 
here with it because I knew the man loved you, and 
you loved him? " 

' ' Forgive me," Edith begged anxiously. "I didn't 
mean that — really." 

Elise was mollified. 

"It's all right," she smiled. "I'm glad I could do 
you the favour. I thought you'd know what to do. 
You know, you can't fool a girl that's got heart— and 

Edith already was making up her mind as to what 
she should do. 

"You don't know where I could — where this Simp- 
son could be found?" she asked. 

"No. I haven't seen him since. You might find 
him in some saloon, I reckon. Maybe Mr. Waller 
might get hold of him." 

"That, " Edith said, "was what I was thinking." 


Bishop Rex^vll, the head of the biggest diocese of 
a great church, had been glad to receive Mr. John 
"Tell me," he said, "what is it you wish?" 
His thin, sensitive lips moved slowly, as if he had 
learned long ago the power of all spoken words. He 
drummed lightly on the arm of his ci.air with his long, 
slender fingers, and his clear, gray eyes, as he looked 
at the agitator, were eloquent of wisdom and under- 
standing. In spite of his white hair and his great 
age, he was strong. His strength was evident even 
as he sat far down in his chair, so that he seemed to 
rest on the small of his back, his legs crossed, his right 
foot moving slowly up and down with the regularity 
of a pendulum. His benevolence was upon him like 
a mantle. Any one, upon seeing him, sensed it and 
knew it, almost as if it had been a tangible, visible 

It was within three weeks of the date set for the 
"prohibition parade "—this being the name the public 
had given the demonstration. Smith, his wonderful 
vivacity undiminished by the work he had done and 




was doing, had come into the room with his accus- 
tomed flamelike ardour— and this had suggested to 
the bishop the atmosphere of youth that always was 
about John Smith. The older man marvelled that 
one who seemed so young could have accomplished 
so much, or could have persuaded others to go with 
him into the undertaking. 

'•It is very simple, what I have come to ask," 
Smith explained. "I am very anxious to have you 
lead the multitude in prayer, up there on the east 
steps of the Capitol at noon on December 10th." 

The bishop put the tips of his slender fingers to- 
gether so that, with his elbows resting on the chair- 
arms, they made a gable over which he looked at the 
agitator. He smiled gently. 

"There will be prayer.'" he asked. 
•'Why, certainly!" 

The bishop moved his hands slowly so that the 
gable divided and then shut again. 
"Why?" he inquired. 
Smith sprang to his feet. 

"Why, bishop," he said, stating a self-evident 
proposition with the enthusiasm that always was in 
him, "there must be prayer! The opposition to 
whisky was born in the prayers of women, has been 
fostered in the prayers of women, has gained its full 
strength from the prayers of women. It is the women 
who really know how to pray. It is particularly 


the women who know how to pray for the success 
of this movement. That is why, at the crucial mo- 
ment, such a gathering, in which women will pre- 
dominate, should be led in prayer. You may say 
that this is a political thing, that there may be in 
the crowd those who are irreligious or indifferent to 
the church, that this is merely a big show, a spectac- 
ular performance to gain a certain end. But I do 
not believe there is a living soul totally irreligious 
or entirely indifferent to the majesty of praying thou- 
sands. And this is not politics. It is salvation! 
It IS mercy! It is morality! It is the destruction 
of the most hideous evil against which we have to 

He stood and looked at the bishop expectantly. 
The bishop let the gr.bled fingers rest lightly upon 
his lips. 

"The prayers of women!" he said in a low tone, 
as if his lips, in forming the phrase, handled a sacred 
thing; " the prayers of women ! " 

He looked up over his hands at Smith and smiled. 

"Sit down, my son," he said gently. 

He looked down at his slowly moving foot and up 
again at Smith. The smile on his face was like an 
old and e-xquisite picture, subdued, delicate, rich in 

"There is something I remember," he explained, 
"something you might like to hear." 



His manner suggested vaguely the opening of a 
treasure-chest and the bringing forth of precious 
things for the scrutiny of appreciative eyes. 

"I was twenty-four years old when I entereo" the 
ministry," he began. "Before that my friends were 
the usual young man's friends. There was one — 
young and married — of whom I was particularly fond. 
I loved him. He had a way with him — a way!" 

The bishop closed his eyes for a moment. H'hen 
he opened them again, they were untroubled. 

"That has been so long ago! There were times 
when he drank too much. Those times became more 
and more frequent. One night I took him home — 
into his house. His wife met us at the door. She 
was very calm. I don't remember that she did any- 
thing much to attract my attention particularly, 
except that she wrung her hands one against the 
other very slowly and very monotonously. I sup- 
pose, my son, when one's whole soul is tortured, it 
is not easy to command the muscles of one's whole 
body. She did not know about her hands. Per- 
haps she had wrung them that way, one against the 
other, slowly and monotonously, many nights be- 
fore. At any rate, she had schooled her eyes against 

The bishop let his hands fall to the arms of his 
chair and looked up at Smith a long time. 

"She let luc look after her husband. I went into 


the bathroom to get some cold water. She had 
washed her handkerchiefs and spread them on the 
mirror in the bathroom to let them dry. It seemed 
that it was necessary for her to economize that way 
on the laundry bills. It had become necessary." 

The bishop lifted his hands slowly and made out 
of them a little gable again. 

"The little miseries, the dreary little economies 
of such houses," he said, "are legion. But the ser- 
mon of those handkerchiefs— it was powerful. The 
next day I decided to go into the ministry." 

He paused long enough to convey the impression 
that he was closing the treasure-chest which he 
had opened that day for the first time in many 

"The little miseries, the humiliations, those are 
the things with which such men break the hearts of 
such women. That is why the women pray. That 
is why they have to pray. She did not live long. I 
think she wanted to die. I don't think she could 
have wrung her hands, one against the other, so 
slowly, so monotonously, if she had not prayed to 

The bishop looked down at his swinging foot. 

"You" the agitator made the statement without 
thought of curiosity — "had loved her." 

"She had been to me," the bishop said softly, "all 
the flowers of iummer, but " He waved hia 

I .'I 



hands gently. "A woman loves where she loves, and 
is very brave. That is all." 

He closed his eyes again. When he opened them 
the picturelike smile, exquisite, delicate, was on his 

"The prayers of women!" he said, the note of 
reverence in his words. 

John Smith was profoundly moved. He stood up 
and took one of the bishop's slender hands in both 
of his. 

"Then," he said, a little tremulous, "you will lead 
the prayers at the Capitol?" 

"Oh, yes. And about the west front of the Capi- 
tol? The crowd will be all around the building. 
There is Fraydon — Bishop Fraydon, you know. I 
will see that he helps, that he stands on the west 
front. Don't you think that would be well ? " 

"If you only will ! " Smith accepted the offer with 
intense gratitude. "There will be choristers, you 
know, a tremendous choir. They are rehearsing 
every day now — a thousand voices." 

The old man got slowly to his feet and put his 
hand on the young man's shoulder. 

"You are doing,' he said, "what any man would 
be proud to do. Your youth ! How gorgeous it is ! 
And it is from such a man as you that the call for 
this reform must come. From the lips of old age 
the cry falls with a certain weakness — having in it 


the provocation to mockery, as if men might say: 
He IS old; his blood has dried up within him; he 
chatters coldly of virtues; he has forgotten that he 
once was human.' It is so. my son-just as they 
say sometimes of the churches: 'Naturally they 
preach against whisky, but the cry has in it nothing 
of sturdmess. not enough sincerity.' They do say 
that. Wherefore, the fight against whisky is the 
young man's fight. It is the struggle against the 
false pleasures which whisky throws around itself 
It IS the effort of youth to free itself of its greatest 
and most insidious foe. Surely you realize that the 
fight must be made by the young raen-because the 
women pray?" 

"I do most deeply." Smith felt unaccountably 
touched by the old man's fervour. 

"You are wondering," the bishop continued, "why 
I hesitated when you made your request." 
He smiled, as if to deprecate his conduct. 
"It was merely to hear what you had to say— the 
voice of a young man against the young man's enemy 
I hked the music of it, the ring of it. It was an old 
man s whim-his delight in seeing that for which he 
had prayed many years— youth in the battle against 
this terrific thing." 

His old, cool hand, with its slender, graceful fingers 
took Smith's in a steady, prolonged pressure. 
"I shall pray that day." he said. sweeUy solemn; 



"and that prayer, I believe, will take me closer to 
God than I have ever been. It will be strengthened 
by the women's prayers." 

That afternoon, when the agitator received the 
newspaper correspondents, he still had before him 
the recollection of the bishop's smile, subdued, rich 
in memories, delicate. He stood, his hand upon the 
back of a chair, confronting them as they ranged 
themselves in a semicircle before him. It was prac- 
tically a duplication of the manner in which they 
were received by the President at the White House. 
With the bishop's closing words still in his ears, he 
noticed that all of them were young men. He was 
glad that most of them were friendly to him. He 
waited for their questions. 

"It has been pointed out," one of them, a tall, 
wiry man with spectacles, began, "that the attend- 
ance here on the 10th may be cut down by the cold 

"I don't think so," Smith replied. "The weather 
here is open, I am told, until after Christmas. Many 
men have walked through snow and rain and braved 
death to get whisky. Surely there are as many to 
walk through the cold to put it out of the way." 

"But suppose the weather should be bad?" 

"It wouldn't matter. But I don't think it will be 
bad. Let's go on the theory that it will not." 

His engaging smile somehow "put over" the belief 


in the minds of all of them that the lOtli would be a 
bright and balmy day. 

A saturnine young fellow, newly assigned to Wash- 
ington, asked the most interesting question of the 

^ "What have you to say, Mr. Smith," he inquired, 
"to the criticism that many men who will march in 
the parade will be users of alcohol— men who drink?" 
"That," the agitator replied swiftly, "is not a 
criticism. It is a tribute to the justness of this fight. 
Some of the bitterest opponents of the whisky traflSc 
are the victims of that traffic. Your drinking man 
knows the evils of drink— none better. If he wishes 
to fight the thing that is destroying him, we welcome 
him to our ranks." 

"You know," ChoUiewollie confided to several of 
the writers after the interview was over, "the thing 
that hits you hardest about Smith is that he's got 
a whole lot of ordinary, serviceable, garden-variety 
common sense. Put common sense against whisky, 
and the answer's easy." 

"Say!" the saturnine young man inquired eagerly, 
"why won't he talk about his past? " 

"Some day, I fancy, he will," Waller replied, a 
little coolly; "at least, I hope he will." 


Washington looked at Smith and wondered. In- 
dividuals who came into contact with him were 
astounded by his unfaihng, inexhaustible energy. 
The city as a whole, seeing the results of his labours, 
was astonished. Nothing like it had been done ever 
before. The only thing approaching it had been the 
inauguration of a President, when the combined ef- 
forts of a tremendous committee of citizens and the 
machinery of the United States army and the national 
guard had achieved the desired results. Here, how- 
ever, was an individual from whose brain emanated 
all the details of a monster movement and meeting. 
Here was a man whose gifts were such that he could 
keep his hand on the slightest and smallest afiFairs 
that built up and completed the perfect whole. His 
assistants were many. The popularity of his cause 
raised up regiments of helpers, men and women, but 
his was the commanding voice, the controlling mind. 
Much has been written and said about the " Wash- 
ington atmosphere," its peculiarity, its mystery, its 
difference from the rest of the country. People have 
looked at the diplomatic corps and said: "Ah, that 


makes the atmosphere of the city— the great brains, 
the mysterious men, the brilliant women!" Some 
have looked at Congress and said: "That is the 
atmosphere of the Capital-the great men, the leaders 
m politics, the students of human nature!" Others 
have been impressed by the official functions, the 
carriages and automobiles banked in street or avenue, 
the high officials, and said: "That is the peculiarity of 
Washington— the rulers of the nation in brilliant dis- 
play and animated recreation, a unique Society!" 
The truth about the matter is that Washington is like 
any other American city, except for the fact that it 
is a residential rather than a business and manufac 
turing town. The working hours are easier than any- 
where else. There is a certain laziness throughout 
the general population. 

And in Congress, the House, and the Senate, there is 
merely Americanism of the best type— hard-working, 
conscientious, brainy men attending to the business 
of the country just as the affairs of a big corporation 
are managed. The diplomatic corps is nothing in the 
life of the city as a whole. Society is merely the 
supplement of the busy political life. And American 
politics is like anything else American. It is hustling, 
up-to-the-minute, alert, on the watch for opportunity. 
The impression of an unusual thing on Washington 
must be the same as it would be on any other Ameri- 
can town. 


Consequently, the Capital rogardod Smith with 
all the interest and all the admiration that would 
have been given him elsewhere — possibly willi more, 
for the people of Washington know I lie really great 
from the sham, and reward it instantly. The " Wash- 
ington atmosphere" responds to brilliancy just as 
any other "atmosphere " must do. Members of Con- 
gress, particularly, now that their vanguard was 
coming slowly back for the new session, stopped in 
the corridors of the Capitol and on street corners to 
comment on the effectiveness with which this young 
man had not only appealed to the country but had 
also compelled the country to answer his call. 

It was true. His work was unprecedented in many 
ways — in its volume, its far-reaching influence, its 
immensity of detail, its largeness of program. And 
to all of it he gave his flaming, imperious attention. 
The arrangement of the bands, the placing of the 
big choral clubs and singing societies, the laying out 
of the line of march, the placing of the state delega- 
tions — all passed through his hands and were bettered, 
altered, or approved. 

He personally felt a consuming passion for the 
work. He never tired, consciously. Often he found 
himself fearing that he was driving his fellow-workers 
too hard. His enthusiasm made him feel that he 
could throw his hat against the stars — and his en- 
thusiasm was so great because his desire to win the 

THE >UX >\-H0 FORGOT lei 

fight was w intense. He was determined that nothing 
should stop him and the movement which recogni::<-d 
him as its necessary lender. If anybody questioned 
liis powers of endurance, he merely laughed. His 
strength, he told himself, could not be cxiiau ited. 

But Waller, watching him with hawklike attentive- 
ness, thought he detected in him little sigi s of weari- 
ness, trifling evidences of the terrifi, (ram. And th« 
newspaper man, having seen all m.uinpr of -nen i,. n\] 
kinds of work, hit on his o^vn solutiun of tL .V-fidor's 
trouble. It was not the work that l.oth<-t I him. 
It was another labour, a different kind of vtrain. It 
was his overmastering longing to win to that po.sition 
where he could go to Edith Mallon and ask h-r to 
marry him. 

"His pride is being hurt," Waller thought. "He 
will not go to her now. He figures that, if he wins 
out in this thing, his position will be such that he can 
more properly ask her to marry him." 

But even Waller's analysis of the situation was in- 
complete. The iron that had gone into John Smith's 
soul was that he could not know whether he was in ., 
position to marry any woman. And yet, he practi- 
cally was convinced that he could. His thoughts, 
his ideals, his dreams, concerning Edith were enough 
to convince him that, whatever might have been in 
his past life, real love for a woman had never figured 
in it. Most of the time his work absorbed him 



utterly. This had to be so, for his own sake and for 
the sake of the work itself. But, whenever his 
thoughts went to her, he became a king of romance- 
that kind of romance which is in the heart of every 
man who fares forth to win the one woman. It was 
an imperious thing. He could recognize, even in his 
darkest moments, no insuperable obstacle in the way 
of his winning her. A confidence that at the same 
time was blind and yet definite held him up. 

Only, there were tmes in the early morning hours 
vifhen he clenched his hands and thought: 

" I can overcome whisky in the mass, for the benefit 
of the whole people, but what it did to me I cannot 
remedy. The sightless years, the days that will not 
come back to me, the things I have done! A f : 'e 
wall, the wall of my ignorance of myself, keeps rae 
from her. What hope— what possible hope is there 
for me — or for her?" 

Then, with the great will that was his, he compelled 
consolation for himself with the thought: 

"There must be a way out. There is a way out of 
all things evil and ugly. But how long must I wait.' 
How long.' Surely I have waited long enough ! " 

That was the thing that added a fine line here and 
there under his eyes— his great, personal grief. 

And yet, in that grief, as is the way with provident 
nature, he found always new fuel for the energy he 
needed in his fight before Congress. 


Dr. Johann Vetteb read the card which the 
nurse entering his consultation room with noiseless 
step, handed him: 

"JUiss Edith Mallon." 

He reilected for a moment. 

"Show her in," he said finally. 

Doctor Vetter was a man of great stature, and fat. 
He weighed more than three hundred pounds. But 
un Ike most fat men, there was about him no air of 
jolhty and laughter. The expression on his round, 
fat, clean-shaven face was, rather, one of solemnity 
almost sadness. He was an authority on the diseases 
-the peculiarities, the quirks, the tragedies-^f the 
nund, and anybody who knew his profession and ob- 
served h.m would have said that his vast knowledge 
of his subject made him mourn. Those who met him 
casually, on the street, or at concerts where his great 
love of music made him a familiar figure, would have 
described him as crusty, monosyllabic, diflicult. But 
those who had come to him with their sufferings and 



sorrows »oid another story. He became, it seemed, 
quite a different sort of person in that spacious, half- 
lit, quiet room, where he listened to what tortured 
men and women had to say while they begged him 
for relief. His compassion was infinite. His sym- 
pathy was tremendous. There were one or two who 
said there were moments when his soul came out and 
trembled on the edges of his eyelashes— a great soul 
that knew the sufferings of other souls and went to 
meet them halfway. 

As the nurse closed the door after ushering in Miss 
Mallon. he got to his feet. Edith noticed that, in 
the movement of his vast bulk, there was some degree 
of gracefulness. He took her hand and held it a few 
seconds longer than was necessary, she thought, as 
he stood and looked smilingly down upon her. He 
always gave that impression— he looked down at 
people, individually and collectively, as if he studied 
them and built up instantaneously in his own mind 
little stories and conjectures about them. 

"Ah, Miss Mallon," he said in a strong bass voice 
that had in it also the promise of tenderness, "I am 
glad to see you. You do good things. We hear 
always of people who do really good things." 

She took the chair to which he motioned her. 

"You are very kind, Doctor," she acknowledged 
his greeting, "you who do nothing but good always." 

His answering smile was slow, appreciative. 



"It is my profession— to try to help," he said; 
"but you are a volunteer." 

"It is because I relied on your kindness, your gen- 
erosity, that I have come to you this afternoon," she 
explained. "I am not ill— but I am anxious for in- 
formation, for advice." 

"Ah, then you want to help some one — don't 

He was looking at her very attentively. 

She hesitated a moment. 

"I hope to— with your help," she said at last. 

" We must be allies, then," he answered, unhesitant. 
"Tell me, what is it?" 

She looked at him with frank, unwa\ ering eyes. 

"It is very important— what I want to know," she 
replied; "important to me, and to others." 

"Notliing," he said gently, "can be very imjiortant 
to one person alone." 

"Yes, that is true. I want you to lell me. out of 
your great experience, your rare knowledge, what 
alcohol can do to the human brain— whether it can 
destroy memory; that is. destroy it irretrievably." 

"Ah-h-h!" he said, the exclamiition coming like a 
low whistle through his lips. 

He turned half from her in his revolving chair and 
looked through tlie window to the trees in the park 
across the street. She sat, still and expectant, await- 
ing his reply. It occurred to her that he knew at once 


about whom she had come -even that he knew she 
realized his appreciation of the situation. 

He swung back toward her, his great hands occu- 
pied in manipulating, idly and with remarkable deft- 
ness, a little paper-cutter. 

"Ah-h!" he said again, and explained; "I shall not 
answer you too briefly. In too few words, it might 
pain you— much." 

"Do not mind me," she urged in a low tone. "It 
is the truth, the real facts, that I want." 

He balanced the paper-cutter on thesecond knuckle 
of the forefinger of his left hand and let it slide slowly 
to the blotter on the desk. He watclied the progress 
of the little knife with great attention. When he 
looked at her, he encouraged her with his smile, as if 
he knew his words might bring her small comfort. 

"Miss Mallon," he begin, "alcohol can do any- 
thing—anything injurious— to the human nerves, the 
human brain. Shall I explain.'" 


She leaned back in her chair, never once taking her 
glance from his face. 

"We have to take such things progressively, step 
by step, in detail, when we discuss them— is it not so?" 
he prefaced what he had to say. "Now—you see, 
these things have been worked out by great physicians, 
wonderful psychologists, triiined men, the pick of the 
scientific world. It is facts that you want. Good! 


We shall confine ourselves to facts-facts being, after 
all. things that have been shown to be truths by 
many investigations, patient experiments, and Ureless 

"Yes." she agreed; "all the facts, from which we 
may get the big, individual fact-the one that 1 

"Quite so. Now, this alcohol: if a man drinks a 
glass of beer, he lowers his general efficiency that day 
8 per cent. If he drinks three glasses of beer a day 
for twelve days, his efficiency at the end of the twelve 
days IS reduced sometimes 23 per cent., sometimes as 
much as 40 per cent. It depends, somewhat, upon 
the man s physique and temperament and upon the 
kind of work he does. But always his usefulness is 
lowered between 25 and 40 per cent." 
"Impossible!" sheexclaimed involuntarily 
Vetter waved his right hand in mild deniai 
"My dear child," he said, the gentleness still in 
his voice, ,t has been proved-so often. Again ■ life 
insurance companies an- governed solely by facts 
and figx.res. Unless their statistics and averages are 
correct down to the smallest fraction, they lose money 
and cannot exist. Figures collected by such corpo- 
rations show that, while the death-rate among total 
abstamers from alcohol is 560 per year out of every 
61,215 of the total population, the death-rate among 
hquor users is 1.043 out of every 61,215, making 



you see, the death-rate among consumers of alcohol 
three times what it is among those who do not 
use it. Wliat I have mentioned has been just a few 
instances to show the general and unfailing effects of 
alcoholic drinks. Men training for athletic events 
are kept away from alcohol. Brain workers become 
exhausted and of no account it they use alcohol. 
Every big thing that men attempt is crippled or 
ruined by alcohol." 

He piaj ed with the paper-knife a few moments. 

"But ii does more tiian reduce efficiency and de- 
stroy life. It tears down the brain structure, confuses 
the thought processes, makes of the mind a jumbled 
mass of refuse. Men, under the influence of alcohol, 
lose their memories for a few hours very frequently. 
There are many men who get so drunk evening after 
evening that they go home, undress, and get into bed 
without knowing in the morning the slightest thing 
about what they did the night before. It is called 
temporary alcoholic aberration. 

"There are other men who never get helplessly 
drunk, but take a few drinks every day, year in and 
year out, and finally reach llie [)oinl where they have 
fixed alcoholic delusions. Such nien are those who 
often conceive unfounded jealousies of their wives. 
They claim they never get drunk. If they do not, 
they go crazy. It is as much tragedy one way as the 


He let the paper-knife fall and folded his hands on 
the desk before him. 

"And there have been extraordinary eases of the 
loss of memory for months, for years, forever, as the 
result of the use of alcohol. If it can be lost for a 
few hours or a few days. then, naturally, it can be 
lost for months or years or forever. There was one 
celebrated case, attested by physicians and borne 
out by competent witnesses. Shall I tell vou?" 

"Please." ^ 

"An old man who had been a heavy drinker died. 
He had been a notorious character in the small 
Western town in which he had lived. His profanity 
had been of an unusual, picturesque, amusing type 
His costume-a high silk hat. a frock-coat and gray 
trousers-had been a proverb. Also, he had been 
very fond of dogs. Three weeks after he died, a 
young man who had been on many sprees with him 
got drunk, and. while standing in a saloon, all of a 
sudden broke into a stream of profanity that was a 
duplicate of the language the old man had used. The 
young man employed the same inflections, the same 
gestures, all tiic mannerisms of the old man. He de- 
clared tliat he was the old man. and introduced him- 
self to everybody as the old man. Furthermore, he 
went immediately to a store and bought and put on a 
high hat. a frock-coat, and gray trousers. When he 
came back up the street to the saloon he had several 

viiir- suv^a:-, 


dogs following him. Those are the main features of 
that case. For seven months the young man was 
the old man in every detail and particular. At the 
end of the seventh month, as suddenly as the thing 
had come upon him, it left him. He regained his 
own personality. Of course he remembered nothing 
of the seven months duri ij which he had 'been' the 
old man." 

Edith was listening eagerly, her lips half-parted, 
her breath coming and going very fast. 

"Tell me," she asked, "have there been many such 

"A great many. And, as I said, there have been, 
oh, so many, where the memory left for years — or for 

"And the remedy?" 

"Many can be tried." 

"And they are not effective — always?" 

"Not always." 

She grew slowly erect and leaned toward him, as a 
flower is moved by the wind. 

"But sometimes?" 

"Yes," he said, the tenderness mighty in his voice; 

"What do you do?" 

"We talk to the patient, suggest things to him— 
ideas, words, places, anything, over and over again, 
hour after hour, day after day. It is with the hope 


that the association of ideas will bring results— that 
one thing may suggest another until, like an endless 
chain, the words will grow into an idea that will 
awaken memory." 

"And if that fails?" 

"There is one other Jiope: The victim may be 
cured 'by accident.' That is, for no reason that is 
apparent the memory power may come back. Or it 
may be brought back by a shock of great joy or great 
grief. Those are tilings we have not yet been able 
to explain. But they happen— sometimes." 

She drew her underlip between her teeth and looked 
at him out of wide eyes. 

"And alcohol does these things to men?" she 

Vetter nodded a little grimly. 

"These things, and many others," he assented. 
"It destroys memories, minds, bodies, souls." 

He turned half from her again and looked out to 
the park. She waited for him to speak. When he 
looked at her again, his eyes questioned her. 

"Of course," she said, a little brokenly, "you 

He nodded his big, round head slowly. 
" My dear child— yes. It is a great pity." 
She sobbed once, scarcely audibly. He was still 
looking at her. There were no tears in her eyes. 
Meeting his glance, she was reminded that she had 



heard about his soul coining up to his eyelashes and 
meeting other souls halfway. 

"It is a great pity," he said, " but he is very brave." 

"How did you know.'" 

She spoke hardly above a whisper, as if the ex- 
ertion of ulteranc-e hurt her. 

"He told me." 

"He told you?" 

Vetter rose with surprising swiftness and went to 
her and took both her hands in his, his great figure 
looming, it seemed to her, grotesquely large above her. 

"Dear child," he said again, his hands moving hers 
slowly up and down, "for five months I treated him 
— tried to help him — and " 

He did not finish the sentence, but stood looking 
down at her bowed head, his hands moving hers. 
After a few moments he stepped back from her. 

She stood up and looked at him, her lips pressed 
close to control the mutiny of her grief. He waited 
for her to speak. 

"Butlam not afraid one bit," she did speak finally. 

He looked at her a long time, compassion giving 
place in his eyes to admiri'tion. 

"There is in nature," he consoled her, "a wonderful 
economy. Nothing happens without cause or with- 
out beneficent result in the end. It is so, I believe, 
with that higher thing we call Providence, or that 
greater Power we call God. Surely, for such a man 



as he, there must be a recompense, a repayment. I 
believe there must be." 
"You do believe that?" 

" I do. I have seen so much of suffering, so much 
of grief. Pain is the key to power. Out of grief 
comes greatness. That is why I am confident." 

She began to weep, softly, steadily. He forced her 
back into her chair, the touch of his monster hand 
light as thistledown. 

"Dear child, it is good," he comforted. "Our 
hearts do not break when we Can weep. And tears 
freshen the flower of our valour." 

It was late in the afternoon when she got back to 
her home. 

She went to the telephone on her desk and called 
up Waller. He had promised her the night before 
that, if it were possible, he would find Simpson. He 
had been impressed, as she had been, by Elise 
Downey's story. 

^ "I'm sorry," he told J.or in response to her call, 
"but the man has disappeared. There can be no 
doubt about it. I see now how crazy I was to have 
him run out of town. It was exactlj- the wrong thing 
to do." 
She thanked him .tiuI hung up the receiver. 
"Still," repeating what she had said to Vetter, "I 
am not afraid one bit." 



1.0 |ri^ m 


^ 1653 East Mom Stre 


Choluewolue and Mrs. Griswold Kane were 
having lunch together in a downtown cafe. 

"You disappoint me terribly," she lamented, when 
the salad had been brought. 

"Naturally," he agreed. 'People usually are noth- 
ing but a series of disappointments to each other. 
But what is my especial sin — to-day?" 

"You have no curiosity." 

She was her best self. Her arms looked chubbier, 
and her hair was more attractively disarranged, than 
ever. Her general effect of fluffiness was perfect. 
And, in addition, there was in her eyes the glow of 
real excitement. 

"You do me an injustice," he protested, his drawl 
unusually soft and pleasant. "I have curiosity. I 
worship curiosity. I commend curiosity. It is the 
one thing that makes my business a necessity and 
enables me to work. If people had no curiosity, 
there would be no newspapers. So, you see, I am 
all curiosity." 

"Then," she demanded, "why don't you ask me 
why I wanted to see you to-day?" 




He laughed his enjoyment. 

"Because I know," he answered her. 

"You do.?" 

"Of course. It is about Mr. John Smith and— 
Miss Edith Mallon. Isn't that true? " 

"That much was easy to guess." 

"But there's more. Miss Mallon wants to com- 
municate something to Mr. Smith, and, under the 
present circumstances, there must be go-betweens. 
There you have it— you and I are the go-betweens. 
I rather guess it is more than that. Am I far wrong 
when I think you and I will — ah — er — chaperon or 
arrange their meeting? " 

Mrs. Kane looked at him in frank and large ad- 

"And yet," she mourned, "they say men have no 
intuition! You are, Mr. Waller, perfectly correct — 
and a perfect detective. There is just one little de- 
tail you've overlooked." 

"And that is?" 

"It will be in your apartment!" 



Cholliewolhe paused before he made any com- 
ment on that. She fancied that he looked a little 

"Surely," she said, "you don't object to that!" 

"Oh. no." 



He began on his salad. 

"Tell me," she persisted, "what are you think- 

"Tell me," he countered, "is this meeting a ne- 
cessity? You know, this is the last day of Novem- 
ber. There are only ten days before the big affair." 

"I don't know that it is a necessity. I do know 
that Edith is very anxious for it — and she must have 
a reason. What possible harm could it do?" 

"Probably none," he admitted, the drawl in his 
words making them sound reluctant; "possibly much. 
I don't believe in his taking any chances. I don't 
believe in his doing anything from now until then ex- 
cept work on this demonstration." 

"Tell me what you mean — and don'*, please, talk 
so much like a Chinese puzzle!" 

"He is being so closely watched, so bitterly at- 
tacked; that is what I mean. And a clandestine 
meeting — oh, I know this could not be misconstrued 
by people in their right senses, but not all are in their 
right senses now. And politics turns out some in- 
credibly clever liars, Mrs. Kane. I would not, for 
anything, have it known that he and she had met 
anywhere but in her own home — just now." 

"She thought of that," Mrs. Kane explained, forti- 
fying herself. "That is why we picked out your 
apartment as the ideal place. Nobody would ever 
suspect her of going there. She and I would go 



together. Later you and he could come in 
she says she rmtst see him." 

"Perhaps," he agreed after another period of 
thought, "it can be arranged — safely." 

"Why are you worried."' she came back to her 
question. " I thought you considered him impregna- 
ble in this thing." 

"Nc man in public life is impregnable against 
sudden and treacherous attack," he said gravely. 
"Calumny and slander can work terrific injustice in 
a few days, and require weeks for retribution." 

"Explain it to me." 

He pushed aside the salad and lit a cigarette, so 
absorbed in the subject that he forgot to ask her 

"In a movement of this sort, Mrs. Kane," he said 
gravely, "which affects everybody in the country 
more or less, which affects most people tremendously 
one way or the other, there are bound to be two 
parties, two sides. As things stand to-day. Smith 
has tho majority, a vast majority, with him. His 
cause itself, his picturesqueness, his marvellous abil- 
ity, and his indomitable will have made that sure. 
Already the march to Washington has begun. You 
can look around this cafe and see at some of the tables 
people who have been brought here by him. They 
are the vanguard of the greatest thing in the history 
of this country. His name is on everybody's lips." 



"Of course," she assented; "on everybody's lips." 

"Exactly. But how? Many bless him and praise 
him and admire him. But there are those who sneer 
and revile him. You must realize that. Not only 
the whisky interests fight him, but all the other in- 
terests allied with whisky — you can realize what 
they are— are against him. This formidable array, 
enlarged by the ranks of tiie stupid, would like 
nothing better than to see him fall, to hear of his 
being discredited. More than that, they would do 
anything on earth to bring it about. They'd lie, 
steal, even murder, to put him down and out to- 
morrow morning. They go, as I have told him, on 
the theory that, if they can hurt him, they can hurt 
his cause." 

"But do you believe that?" 

His answer was very slow. 

" Mrs. Kane, there's nobody on earth who can tell 
how the American public will receive a fact or even 
a bare assertion of a fact. Here in Washington we 
learn that — if we learn anything — that nobody can 
foretell what the public will or will not do to a man 
for this or for that." 

Mrs. Kane's cheery fluffiness was submerged in 

■'You mean," she asked, "if they could discredit 
him, this demonstration, this parade, all that it means, 
might fall through?" 


"I mean just that,' he replied with great earnest- 
ness. "I mean it's entirely within the realm of 
possibility that, if anything we..- brought out to- 
morrow—whether it were the truth or a lie, makes no 
diflFerence— to create the impression that John Smith 
was an unworthy man, the whole business would 
crumple up, fall flat, and the crusaders would never 
crusade. I s '.y it is possible." 

"I wouldn't have believed it." 

"Nowadays," he elaborated, "the people look once 
at the platform and twice at the leader. It may 
be unreasonable, but it is their habit— which we can- 
not change." 

Mrs. Kane went back to her mission. 

"But Edith insists that she must see him." 

"Very well," he said. "As you suggested, nobody 
would ever think of their meeting at my apartment. 
Besides, there will be four of us." 

Mrs. Kane laughed. 

"Your acceptance of the situation, after your 
gloomy forebodings, amuses me," she explained. 

He produced another cigarette and regarded her 

"May I confide in you— absolutely?" he asked, 
the drawl going out of his voice. 

"Absolutely," she assured him,somewhat surprised 
by his solemnity. 

"The thing that keeps me terrified all the time. 



utterly frightened," he said, "is my belief that they've 
got something on him now." 

"Got something on him now? What do you 

"That they know something about this blessed, 
mysterious past of his, about which we know noth- 
ing, and that they're going to spring it on him." 
"When?" siie inquired in big-eyed amazement. 
"Whenever it suits them, whenever they think it's 
the psychological moment." 
"What do you tliink it is?" 

"I don't know what it is," he confessed; "but I 
believe they've got something — something real. Hon- 
estly, Mrs. Kane, I believe tney've got something 
true. I don't want to believe it, but I do." 

ChoUiewollie looked sad, actually grieved. If he 
had stopped to try, he could have counted up how 
many years it had been since he had allowed himself 
to feel sorry for a public man. His boredom and 
blase emotions were failing him. Mrs. Kane, watch- 
ing his face attentively, thought he seemed tired. 

"Oh, Mr. Waller!" she said, feeling some of his un- 

"I wish the ten days were over— that's all," he 
replied a little petulantly. "It's enough to cut the 
heart out of a giant— this suspense. Here we are 
now at a point where we can hear the gathering of 
this extraordinary army. The reports are coming 


in every day of the last preparations for tlic depart- 
ures from tlie little towns, for the meetings of the 
delegations at the central points, for the special trains, 
the brigades of children, the singing clubs. Why, 
it's like turning the whole country upside down. 
That's what it is! Washington is the goal of every- 
body who can travel! Nobody e\er saw anjthing 
like it before. The hum of it, the stir of it, the thrill 
of it is already here, in the hotels, in the streets, in 
the corridors of the Capitol! And all because a man 
with fire reaping through his veins has sprung to 
the head of a tremendous movement — has made the 

He smiled at her half whimsically. 

"-A.nd here I am scared half to death! Why he 
isn't, I can't understand." 

Mrs. Kane struck the tablecloth with her chubbv 

"Why won't he tell us.='" she demanded in despera- 
tion. "Why won't he tell you? Why won't he tell 
Edith about himself.'"' 

"That's what I don't understand again," he ad- 
mitted, "v.l:y he doesn't tell Miss Malloii." 

Mrs. Kane had an i.ispiration. 

"He may to-night!" she exclaimed. 

"I wonder," Waller sa''d slowly, "if that is why she 
wants to see him." 

They made their plans for the evening. Waller 



would have Smith there by seven o'clock, and Nellie 
and Edith were to come in at eight. The apartment 
house was a small one on an unimportant st eet. It 
seemed simple enough. 

For the remainder of the afternoon Waller worried 
not about the meeting that evening but about the 
general outlook. He could not shake off his >elief 
that the other side knew something that would hurt 
the agitator. And, when he considered that, he 
thought also of the minority of haters which night 
become overnight a majority. 

"The public " he concluded gloomily, "is a fool. 
I ought to know. I've been writing for it long 
enough. But if f'.iey throw this thing down now, 
they're crazier even than I thought — which is going 


Al: < of it was done so quickly, with such sure deft- 
ness and skill, by Mrs. Kane that Edith found herself 
alone in the room with the man she loved before she 
quite knew how it had been brought u'wut. She had 
come in with Nellie and had spoken to both the men, 
and immediately Nellie, explaining that she must 
see the tapestries Waller kept in his "showroom" 
and talking glibly and uninterruptedly all the while, 
h-,d whisked Waller out with her, closing the door 
behind her. 

A long, high-backed coucn was set before the oj >en 
wood-fire, and behind the couch was the table bearing 
the reading light. The glow from the flames was 
almost as great as that from the la-np. The room, 
with its medley of colours, its conglomeration of fur- 
niture and ornaments from all parts of the world, 
was in itself a curious expression of isolation, silence, 
withdrawal from other people. He felt somehow 
that never befo.e had he been so entirely a»one with 

They were standing, facing each other, in front of 
the fire. As the door closed behind the others she 


looked at him and smiled. lie stood tense and erect, 
as if lie tried to eompreiiend something greater and 
more gorgeous tiian lie possibly rould have expected. 

'Tm afraid you're thinking," she hazarded, a little 
uncertainly, "that I was very silly to — to want to .see 
you here — or anywhere." 

He took her hand and led her a step to the couch, 
arranging the cushions for her comfort as she leaned 
agains them. 

"I was marvelling," he answered her gravely, "that 
the human heart could feel .such happiness as mine 
does now." 

She indicated with a wave of her hand the place 
near her. 

"Sit here, beside me," she invited. 

He sat down, turning so that he might face her and 
watch the play of the firelight on her hair and features. 

She was looking into the fire, her beauty softened 
and made more exquisite by her expression of sweet 

"Waller told mc," he suggested, "that there was 
something very important." 

She did not answer. 

"Is there.'" he asked after a pause. 

Sheturned to liim and smiled slowlyand brilliantly. 
All of a sudden he was tremendously aware of her 
charm, her loveliness, the fragrance of her, the mys- 
tery-lights of her eyes, the sweetness that was hers. 


"Very important," she replii-d, llu- coniiiig 
through the smile. "I think, Mr. ,;oliii Sniilli, it is 
merely another case of a woman pursuing a man." 

Her eyes, sniiiin>,', lield his gaze. There was a little 
catch in her voice. 

"My Lady Bountiful!" he managed to say. 

She turned from him and looked into the flanicp 

"There are only ten days left," she began with 

wonderful directness, " and I knew you would -night 

want to know that the woman you— jou love— that 

her spirit always is with you— always." 

She fell silent, the reflection of the fire stealing un- 

derher lowered lids and making new lights in her eyes. 

A red rose dropped from her corsage and slid from 

her knee to the floor. He picked it up swiftly and 

slipped it into the breast-pocket of liis coat. 

"I wish," he said, his voice breaking, "I could tel! 
you that I love you — how nuieh I love you, my — 
My Lady Bountiful." 

"And I understand," she murmured. "You can- 

"No; I cannot." 

She looked at him, turning her head with a quick, 
imperious mo'-'on. He saw that there was in his eyes 
the hint of tears. 

"But," slie said, "that doesn't make the slightest 
difference to me. Some day you can." 
"Do you feel that?" 



"I know it," she answered, her trust absolute. 

"I wonder sometimes," he said, "why we do feel 
so sure of — of the future." 

For an instant she laid her left hand, light and 
tremulous, on his coat-sleeve. 

"Tell me," she asked, "what your attitude about it 
is — exactly." 

He laughed. 

"All I can think of now," he protested, "is the 
wonder of your love for me — your acceptance of me 
on trust. I did not know, I could not realize, there 
was such heroism in woman." 

"It is not heroism," she denied. "It is merely 
that I love you — and that you love me. That, also, 
is why we both know that ultimately happiness must 
come to us." 

"Yes; that is why." He looked at her as religious 
devotees look at sacred things, from afar, or as lovers 
of the beautiful at a work of art. "Somehow, I am 
convinced that the doing of the work before me will 
bring its reward. That reward is you. I — both of 
us — try to serve others. Surely that is the only real 
way in v/hich we can serve ourselves." 

She started, remembering what Vetter had said — 
almost the same thing. 

"If you will listen, if it will not tire you," he went 
on, "I shall tell you a story, my own story of my idea 
of what this life, this service, must mean in the end." 


She recognized the growing ardour in him, the en- 
thusiasms conn'ng to the surface, the breaking forth 
of his pecuHar strength under the influence of what 
she had said to him. 

"Ah," she breathed, "do tell mo." 

She leaned far back in the cushions, sometimes 
screening her face from the flames with her uplifted 
hand, now and then flashing to him a look of under- 
standing or appreciation, while he talked, his voice 
vibrant, low, more musical than she ever had heard 

This is the fanciful, beautiful story to which she 
listened : 

The young man who travelled the Happy Highway 
wore on a finger of his left hand a ring of gold, won- 
derfully wrought and set with a pale, translucent 
emerald. All his apparel was like that of a king's son. 
And the sunshine, creeping into the ringlets of his 
hair, became wavy, vibrant gold. 

The smile of the young man was the most beautiful 
the other pilgrims on the Happv Highway ever had 
seen. Since nothing in his conscience reproached 
him, it was unblemished by grief; and, since he had 
found nothing to fear in all the world, it welcomed 
everybody who approached him; and, because he had 
nothing to conceal from the gaze of men, it was radi- 
ant with delight. 





"He is not only beautiful," said a bent old man; 
"he is the best-natured young man who ever has trod 
the Happy Highway!" 

"He is so," agreed an old woman in a funny little 
treble voice. "And all of us must keep him happy 

Thus it came about that the young man's days 
and nights were perfect, for all the joyous company 
heeded the old woman's advice. Care never came 
near him, and pain could not touch him. 

As he strolled along the highway, men and women 
of all ages brought him wonderful gifts and did him 
service and pleased him. They arranged it so that 
the purple plumes of lilacs shaded him always from 
the noonday sun, and, as he walked, red roses, the 
reddest roses that bloomed, swayed forward from 
each side, and, moved by unseen hands, washed the 
air with their fragrance. 

At night somebody — anybody he chose — fanned 
him with fans made of the leaves of blue-purple 
poppies, for sleep. Always, when he slept, he was 
housed in sumptuous places, and his pillows were so 
soft that, as he rested his head upon them, they did 
not disturb the lovely ringlets of his hair. 

Like all the rest, he was travelling toward the 
House of Happiness — the great p lace about which 
all had heard and toward which all turned their faces 
with a longing that was quite beyond the power of 


words to express. For it was a gorgeous palace, 
with many rooms, some of marble, some of purple 
porphyry, some of light green jade, and some of rare, 
reddish alabaster — all of them lighted from above 
through a roof that was one unbroken sheet of gold 
beaten so fine that the sunlight came through it in 
softened yellow splendour. 

But the strange thing was that, although the 
House of Happiness seemed a very short distance 
away, the Happy Highway was long. The House 
of Happiness should have been reached within an 
hour, but there were those who had travelled the 
Happy Highway for years and years. 

This, however, did not worry the young man. He 
was beautiful, and he was young, and his smile 
played always upon his face until it seemed that 
magic brushes had painted upon his lips the picture 
of perfect dreams. And this was no surprising thing, 
for all along the highway, which was a deep, yellow 
carpet of asphodel, hundreds upon hundreds of peo- 
ple vied with each other to do him service. 

All his wishes were gratified, and the hours were, 
for him, fairies of [)lenty flashing past him on jewelled 

"I saw yesterday a young girl whose hair was like 
a rain of stars," he said once, "and the snow of her 
breast was lovelier far than the snow of the breast of 
any other young girl. Why can I not have priceless 



, ,■)! 




jewels to hang about her neck — jewels to pay her for 
the kiss she gave me when I passed? " 

And immediately a great strong man came up to 
the edge of the highway and spoke to him. Over 
the edges of the stranger's hands, which he held in 
the shape of a bowl, jewels of red and green and blue 
and dazzling white flowed, a cascade of colour. 

"All these," the strong man said, "are for you — 
to pay the young girl for the kiss she gave you." 

And the young man's smile was brighter than it 
had ever been. Its loveliness was not marred, even 
the slightest bit, when the bent old man, who had 
long, snowy hair and an expression that was like a 
blessing, pointed out that the House of Happiness was 
still a long way off. 

"I heard a woman sing sweetly this morning," he 
said on another day, "but she was far away, and the 
distance spoiled the periVction of her voice. Wliy 
cannot some woman sing to me here in the shade of 
this linden tree?" 

And immediately a woman with eyes that were 
deepe- than many seas came and sang to him. Be- 
hind her were three maidens who followed the air of 
her song on queer, stringed instruments the like of 
which he had never seen but which laughed with joy 
and sobbed in sorrow, so that, even if the woman had 
not sung, he would have been moved greatly by the 
music. But the woman's singing was sweeter than 



that of nightingales and mockingbirds, and, as he 
looked at her, he fancied that her teeth were the 
edges of a crystal bell against which her tongue rang 
like a clapper made of one great red ruby. 

"I like to sing for those who like to listen," she 
told him, "and I will come again to sing to you here 
in the shade of this linden tree." 

And his smile wore a new beauty because it had 
in it the softness of dreams. Its radiance was not 
dimmed, even the slightest bit, when the old man 
pointed out that the House of Happiness seemed as 
far off as ever. 

"The world is so big jind its loveliness so wide," 
the young man said later on, "that I have not time 
to see it all. Surely there are wonderful pictures 
that have been made. Why cannot I see the great 
pictures men have made?" 

And immediately a man, whose eyes held in their 
depths lights so elusive and mysterious that nobody 
could read even a few of them, brought him pictures 
of mountains wrapped in shadows like purple velvet, 
of hillside gay in the royal splendour of October's 
green and gold, of lovers, bare-armed and with mouths 
that were to each other like honey, of a woman whose 
smile had shone through many centuries, of m". going 
in their gorgeous strength to battle and death. 

"These pictures," the man said, "were made by 
the great dreamers of the world, so that all other 





men, less fortunate, might be able to see from afar 
how splendid it is to dream. And, if you call me, I 
shall oome again and show you more of the great pic- 
tures men have made." 

And the young man's smile was more radiant than 
ever because he had been led into the company of 
dreamers. Its beauty was not disturbed, even the 
slightest bit, when the bent old man suggested that 
he still was far from the House of Happiness. 

"The perfume of the flowers about me," he said 
one day, "is exquisite, but surely there are sweeter 
fragrances to be found. Cannot ray senses be wooed 
by a perfume surpassing all these.'" 

There came up swiftly from one of the fields a little 
woman who was of a great age, and she carried very 
carefully in her hand a tear jar like those that were 
fashioned centuries ago for the women of China. 
And she removed its stopper and held it close to the 
young man's nostrils. The sweetness of it was in- 
effable, so overpowering that for a moment he nearly 
swooned away. 

"This," she said, "is the breath of .i flower that 
bloomed a thousand thousand years ago. Few of 
the sons of men ever knew of it. It was grown by the 
priests of a forgotten religion, in a walled garden, 
for the pleasure of a king's daughter. But on the 
Happy Highway it is possible to find all these things." 

When she was gone, the young man smiled again, 



and his joy was so great that he sighed after he had 
smiled. But he did not sigh when the bent old man 
pointed out that the House of Happiness was yet a 
long way off. 

"Women have been kind to me," he said on an- 
other day, "and their arms have been warm about 
me, and they havt sung to me by day and by night 
all the songs that stir the souls of men. But surely 
there must be in this perfect world one perfect woman. 
Why have I not found her?" 

And lo! there came to him beside the fountain at 
which he sat a woniim whose walk was like the begin- 
nings of music. Her hair was softer and blacker 
than the soft, black reaches of the night, and her 
breast, which stormed tumultuously because of him, 
was fairer than any ever uncurtained by the rever- 
ent hand of sculpture. Her robe fell about her loosely, 
and her long black lashes half hid her eyes, as if she 
awaited but a word from him to lift them and let 
him read all the sweet secrets of her surrendering 

He kissed her that day and for many days and 
many nights thereafter, and they made songs to- 
gether, sittmg by the fountain. Great visions came 
to them unbidden, and he was king and .she was queen 
of the land where dreams come true. 

When she left him, he was smiling, and, still smil- 
ing, he bent over the fountain to drink of the delec- 





table waters. And the untroubled surface of the 
waters was a mirror, which showed him the exact 
picture of his smile. 

He started I)ack, affrighted, desperately eager to 
disbelieve what he had seen. But at last he looked 
again. And he knew that his eyes did not deceive 
him. His smile was twisted. 

It was no longer a beautiful smile. In fact, he 
told himself, there was in it some little thing which 
made it hideous, entirely different from any of the 
smiles he had seen on the fares of the thousands who 
travelled the Happy Highway. 

A young girl, holding a rose by its stem between 
her teeth, stopped and looked at him. 

"Tell me," he said anxiously, "is my smile hide- 

The young girl looked at him a long moment, and 
her eyes were troubled. 

"It is not like anything I have seen on the Happy 
Highway," she answered, and turned from him. 

'''he bent old man was regarding him steadfastly. 

" Why is my smile hideous? " asked the young man, 
wringing his hands in anguish. 

"It is a message from the House of Happiness," the 
old man said with an earnestness that barely escaped 
being sadness, "the writing from the ruler of the 
House of Happiness. Sooner or later it comes to 
everybody on the Happy Highway. 


"The man bearing the jewels for the young girl 
who kissed you as you passed — you failed to note, 
perhaps, that his shoes were dusty and his hands 
knotted and scarred. 

"The woman who sang to /ou — you did not read 
the story in her deep, deep eyes— the shadows of the 
longings and sorrows that had shaken her and bruised 
her that she might at last put her soul into a song. 

"And he who pleased you with pictures— you did 
not see that he was thin and tremulotis with weakness 
because of hung-r and suffering. The makers of pic- 
tures starve and suffer and die so that they may leave 
behind them the glory they have in their hearts. 

"And the tear jar with its wonderful perfume — 
you have not learned that flowers are the spirits of 
dead loves and lonely women's tears. 

"But the woman who came to you at the fountain 
and made songs with you — she gave you herself, all 
her visions, all her dreams. And yet, you gave her 
nothing, and you let her go. The suffering and the 
scars of all these things were as nothing to the woe 
you brought to her and the scar you put upon her 

"But what does it all mean.'" asked the young 
man, heartbroken and astonished. 

"It means," said the bent oid man, "that all may 
reach the Happy Highway, but that the only staff 
which will support any one to the House of Happiness 




is kindly service. You will observe that the blessed 
palace is far away. All these pilgrims served you, 
and you have served none. They are rewarded. 

The young man looked, and he was amazed by 
what he saw. Far down the Happy Highvifay, al- 
most within the shadow of the House of Happiness, 
were those who had served him and been kind to him 
— the strong man through whose fingers jewels ran 
like a flood of colour in the sloping sunlight, the 
singing woman followed by the three girls with their 
strange, stringed instruments, and she who had 
kissed him many days and many nights and made 
songs with him by the fountain. 

And the young man stood and thought for a great, 
great while after the bent old man had left him. The 
long mauve shadows fell longer and longer across the 
Happy Highway. And the one bird who sang at 
that hour made of her song o.^e lingering, plaintive 
note. The House of Happiness was swallowed up in 
the distance. 

"I must render service to others," the young man 
said softly. "I have taken everything and given 
nothing. I must make somebody happy. I must 
hurry to the House of Happiness." 

And he wept bitterly. 

Then, suddenly, even while he brushed away his 
tears, he found that he was running, light-footed. 



along the deep, yellow carpet of asphodel and that he 
could see again the lovely gold roof of the House of 

On the end of his story there was in the room ab- 
solute silence save for the whimpering of the flames. 
He sat, hiii elbows on his knees, his hands hanging 
free, his eyes busy with tlr changing lights of the 
fire. After s. little while he could hear h^r quick, 
sharp breathing, and then the silk of her gown stirring 
against the silk of the cushions as she moved. 

Her two hands closed over his, and rhe was wnis- 
pering, her lips close to his ear. The fragrance of her 
hair was all about him. 

"It will be so!" she breathed, strangely exalted. 
"It will be so!" 

He bent his head and kissed her hands. 

"Even when the man may not kiss the woman he 
loves," he said, his voice also a whisper, a whisper 
curiously coloured with forced levity, "the Jester 
may touch the hand of the Princess — your Royal 



On the following morning a Washington newspa- 
per printed the fl t and unqualified announce: nent 
of the engagemcii if Edith MuUon to John Smith. 
The story was put up in great detail. It recited the 
"widespread interest" that must be felt in such news 
because of the fact that the agitator's great demon- 
stration was but nine days off. Reference was made 
to the breach between Smith and Senator Mallon, 
and, in a slightly veiled way. the intimation was 
carried that the marriage of a woman socially as 
prominent as Miss Mallon to a man of whose standing 
in "Society" so little was known was, to say the 
least, a sensation. The article dwelt on the "interest 
she has shown lor so long in the Smith propaganda," 
and referred to the fact that, soon after she bad met 
him, she had ceased serving at her entertainments 
alcoholic drinks of any kind— "a fact that caused in 
the world of Society quilr as much comment as was 
the case when the Secretary of State inaugurated 
grape juice as the drink of diplomats in Washington." 
Edith's first knowledge of the announcement came 
from her father. A little late for breakfast, she en- 



tered the dining-room with hurried Ktep, u faint smile 
on her lips, and in iier eyes a reflection of the still look 
of wonder she had hud when John Sinitii hud finished 
his storj for her the night before. She realized at 
once that her father was angry, more infuriated than 
she ever had seen him. 

He hulf-rose from his chair unci held out the open 
newspaper across the table toward her. She was 
astounded to see that there was vindictiveness in his 
face. His thin features each seemed drawn tighter 
and finer than was natural. There was a little white 
line across the bridge of his nose. As he stared at 
her his eyelids were half-lowered, as if involuntarily 
he sought to hide some of his anger. 

"Why, father!" she exclaimed, taking the papier 
from his quivering hand. " You look as if you hated 

"Rea- it!" he exploded, pointing wildly toward 
a column . the page in front of her. 

Her eyes ell on the headlines concerning herself 
and John Smith. For a short moment she looked at 
them, trying to understand them. When their full 
significance came to her, she let the pajjer slide from 
her hand to the table. 

"Oh!" she said softly. 

She was a little pale. 

"Now," the Senator supplemented, "what have 
you to say about that? What can you say? " 




She took her seat at the table and looked at him 
over the clustered roses. She was a little afraid, but 
not of him. There rioted through her brain the 
thought that the printed words she had seen were 
about a great man and that, in some way, they 
might hurt him, might weaken him with all those 
who followed his leadership. She did not know 
why the thought came to her, but it did, like a 
premonition. She had not begun to think of her- 

The Senator's impatient-e grew under her gro])ing 


"Well ! " he said fiercely, "What can / say about 

"I wouldn't say anything if I were you, father," 
she suggested, her voice low, almost supplicatii - . 

He frowned more darkly. 

"Why?" he demanded contemptuously. 

"In the first place, it isn't true, of course." 

She put out her hand to fix his coffee. 

"I can't understand you!" he protested roughly. 
"Here is the published statement in a newspaper 
that you are going to marry this man! And you sit 
there, entirely calm, utterly indifferent, and say you 
wouldn't say anything about it!" 

"I wouldn't, really." 

She poured out the coffee. Her mind was busy 
with wondering how the agitator could be hurt by 


the story. She even wondered why she thought he 
could be hurt. 

"Why, the thing's absurd, ridiculous!" her father 
went on. "It makes a laughing-stock of you and of 
me! I forbid him the house, and here comes the 
story of your engagement to him! My daughter 
engaged to this wild-mouthed, idiotic temperance 
agitator — this street-corner blowhard— this faker! " 

She, in her turn, was indignant and distressed by 
the injustice of what he said. 

"He's nothing of the sort," she said steadily. "He's 
a man who has realized the greatest truth in life — 
that we get from the world exactly as much as we give 
to the world." 

"He's crazy— that's what he is! He's mad! Just 
because you let him come in at the front door, he's 
going to marry you!" 

"Father ! " she cautioned sharply. " You know he 
didn't have this article printed. You know he didn't. 
And you know we're not engaged." 

The Senator regarded her with amazement as she 
handed him his coffee. 

"The idea of your thinking it necessary to tell me 
you're not engaged to him! The whole thing's pre- 
posterous ! He's beneath contempt — an upstart with- 
out family, without position, without means!" 

"It seems silly to say that he is nobody," she con- 
tradicted him evenly. "At his call thousands upon 


thousands of people are coming here to compel Con- 
gress to do a big thing. He is a great national figure 
— a wonderful man." 

Her memory of him the night before, the realiza- 
tion that others attacked him as her father was doing 
now, the thought that in many cases there was no- 
body to defend him, the mental picture of his swiftly 
catching up the rose she had dropped at his feet— 
these things flashed through lier mind, aroused in her 
a great longing to protect him, to help him. 

"I only wish," she concluded, looking at her father 
out of wide, utterly frank eyes, "I were his wife to- 

"Then you had that thing printed!" 
His tone was brutal. He struck the table with his 
fist, and, as he did so, his knuckles, grazing the saucer, 
tipped it over suddenly, throwing the cup of coffee 
clear of the table and to the floor. Wales, hearing the 
noise, came into the room. 

"Get out!" Mallon thundered at him, causing his 
instant retreat. 

The Senator's eyes were bulging. He was in a 
berserker rage. 

Edith spoke in sheer surprise. She could not under- 
stand the bitterness, the intensity, of his anger. 

"Now, I require this much of you," he said, a little 
thickly: "you must have the common sense not to 


talk this way to other people! I won't liave it as long 
as you are my daughter and as long as you stay in 
this house! Understand that thoroughly. If you 
have these disgraceful ideas about this man, keep 
them to yourself. Keep them out of the newspapers!" 

He left his chair and started to go from the room. 

"Aren't you going to eat your breakfast?" she 
asked, forcing herself to dimness. 

"When you've finisluxl yours, when you've left the 

"Oh, father," she begged, "please, pleane, be more 
kind, more just." 

He stopped in the doorway. 

''You know," she added, "we are not engaged." 

" Yes ! " he e.xplo<led again. "And everybody else 
will know it! I'm going to send word to the papers 
right now that I want to issue a denial of this absurd 
report. I want the reporters up here just as soon as I 
can get them. I'll have the denial printed to-day 
this afternoon. I won't stand this foolishness! " 

"Then," she said, her words hesitant, "I'll hr ^ to 
— have to " 

"Have to what.'" he broke in. 

She caught her lower lip between her teeth for a 
moment to hide the tremor that was upon it. Al- 
most, there were tears in her eyes. 

"Oh," she answered helple.ssly. "I don't know 
What to do. But if you send for the reporters, I 



think I shall send for Mr. Waller and — and ask him 
to help us — me." 

Her father sneered perceptibly. 

"Do so, by all means," he advised bitterly; "and a 
precious lot of good he'll do." 

"At least," she said, "he's fond of him." 

The Senator flung himself out of the room. 

She hurried upstairs to the telephone on her desk, 
but could not speak to Waller imtil her father had 
finished calling up the Washington newspaper offices 
with the request that reporters be sent to the house at 

When that was over and Waller had said he would 
come to her immediately, she went downstairs again 
and found Nellie Kane. 

"Oh, Nellie," she said gratefully, "I'm so glad 
you're here!" 

Mrs. Kane knew the value of cheerfulness. 

''My dear," she bubbled, "you almost persuade 
me the story isn't true! Besides, this happens to be 
another Thursday. Remember the girls — your girls. 
They'll all be wanting all sorts of help in a few min- 

"Oh," she breathed, "I had forgotten about them, 
but I'm. glad it's Thursday, and I hope — oh, Nellie. 
I do hope I can do lots for them all ! " 

Nellie patted her shoulder gently. 

"My dear," she said, "you always do." 


The two women were in the Mallon parlour when 
ChoUiewollie arrived. 

"Of course," he gave it as his opinion, "it was just 
a coincidenr. that this announcement was published 
the morning following the— er— meeting at my apart- 
ment last night." 

"You don't think," Mrs. Kane voiced her sur- 
prise, "that they're laying their plans to make a 
scandal out of that ! " 

"No," he drawled, "I don't." 
"Of course not!" 

"I don't," he supplemented, "because I'm sure 
they knew nothing about it. But, if they did, I 
wouldn't put it past them, '^'hey'd do anything now 
to hit Smith— and they don't care who else gets 

Edith felt the burning desire to clear her mind of 
the things that puzzled her. 

"Tell me. Mr. Waller," she asked, "what possible 
motive could anybody have had in inspiring the 
story of my engagement to Mr. Smith?" 
"That's as plain an day," he replied. "I don't 



think I'm far wrong in guessing that the estimable 
Albert Mitchell is back of it. He had that story 

"Why.'" Edith persisted. 
'"He wants to make mischief." 
"But how.'" 

"It is an old game in Washington," he explained, 
"this thing of having something pleasant printed 
about a man so that denial of it will make him look 

"Oh," Edith .said, greatly grieved, "my father 
already has telephoned the afternoon newspapers 
to send reporters up here. He wants to deny the 

"There you are! The Senator is doing the very 
thing they counted on." 
Edith reflected a moment. 

"They think," she suggested, "that anything they 
can do to make Mr. Smith look ridiculous will hurt 
what he stands for?" 

"Oh, yes; but this is such a little thing, this en- 
gagement—I mean, it is too slight, the effect of the 
denial and all that, to hurt anybody. If it was cu- 
mulative, if it followed something else, or if there 

were something else to follow this " 

He took his turn at reflection. 
Edith, tremendously distressed, waited for him to 


"Oh," he said, "there's nothing to it— merely a 
little piece of little spite. That's all there can be to 
It. They're in desperate plight, Miss Mallon, and 
they don't hesitate to use you as a means of annoy- 
ing him and worrying him and making him appear 
ridiculous before the country. They're grasping at 
straws. That's all." 

"But when my father issues his denial of the en- 
gagement—what then.' " 

"Your father, feeling as he does toward Mr. STr,;th, 
will not spare him, naturally. He will make it un- 

" If he only wouldn't ! " she said desperately. "If 
he only wouldn't!" 

Mrs. Kane came to the rescue. 

" Your father's in the library, isn't he? " She rose 
quickly. " Well, my dear, leave him to me. All men 
can be handled, and, particularly, all old men can 
be handled by young widows." She laughed reassur- 
ingly. "I go to change his mind." 

"I hope she succeeds," Waller said, when she had 
left the room. 

"You think it so important?" 

"Not vitally, but I seem to be 'hipped' about 
Smith just now. I had rather see nothing come out 
to bother him in the slightest way. Think of what 
he's doing. Think of the responsibilities on him 
this very minute!" 



She contemplated that for a few moments in silence. 

"That is what has bothered me so," she said at 
last. " Why should I be thrust forward as an annoy- 
ance to him at such a time? " 

Like an answer to her question, Wales lifted the 
hangings at the door and announced : 

"Mr. Smith." 

There was hurry in his stride as he stepped into the 
room. It was apparent that he was almost beside 
himself with anger and concern. The anger, which 
was vastly different from Senator Mallon's, was still 
in his face, making his eyes glow. His face was 
very pale. And his physique, which always, in 
some strange manner, reflected his moods as surely as 
did his features, was tensed. Waller, v.'atching him, 
noticed that his chest seemed deeper, and his arms, 
held at a sharper angle from his body, appeared more 
easily and more gracefully .swung in their sockets. 
It was as if his body held itself marvellously ready 
to carry out the impulses of his mind. 

"I beg your pardon!" he said abruptly, halting a 
few steps inside the room. 

"It is too bad!" 

Edith said that involuntarily and held out her 
hand to him. 

" What are you doing here ! " 

Waller made that exclamation express the full 
measure of his astonishment. 


Snuth came forward and shook hands with Edith. 
He paid her all his attention. 

"I would not have come— would not have in- 
truded, believe me," he said with quick emphasis, 
the strength in his voice somehow expressing the fact 
that he felt everything for her, nothing for himself. 
"I called up the office of the newspaper which printed 
that report. I heard that Senator Mallon had sent 
for reporters so that he might deny the engagement. 
I wished— it is my most earnest desire— to say any- 
thing, to do anytliing, that might relieve you of any 
shadow of embarrassment." 
He wheeled, fiery and alert, to Waller. 
"What can I do.'" he demanded. 
" \\Tiat on earth do you think of doing? " the news- 
paper man retorted. 
The agitator turned again to Edith. 
"I am sure you understand," he went on, his 
words a torrent of emotion. "I remembered my 
position— rather, my lack of position— in this house, 
but I have just read the report. I did not stop to 
consider. I came because I am horrified, distressed, 
that such an atrocious embarrassment should be put 
upon you." 

She looked at him; all the lights of morning in her 

"It doesn't embarrass me at all," she told him. 
"But it must!" 



"If it does, it is because I do not like to think of 
anything interfering with your work." 

His perception of how thoroughly she had put him 
before herself checked him. For a second he could 
not speak. 

"My dear fellow," Waller drawled, his voice col- 
oured by the affection he felt for the man, "whut 
could you do, under the circumstances.' " 

"Tell me just that," Smith demanded. "What 
can I do.'" 

"Absolutely nothing." 

"Surely there must be something — some way in 
which I could take it up with the editor, obtain cor- 

"As I told you once before," Waller answered, 
"corrections are not of nmch value. Once put the 
little printed words before the readers with their 
eggs and coffee in the morning, and not all the king's 
horses nor all the king's men can ever recall them." 

Edith reminded him: 

"There is no reason to feel concern for me. If it 
does not trouble you, let's forget it, please. It is by 
no means a tragedy." She smiled wavmly. " Is it? " 

He looked at her steadfastly, and Waller saw that 
he exulted — as a strong man takes pride in his 

"But," Smith reminded her, "there is the question 
of your father's denial of the story." 




The three turned toward the music-room. In the 
doorway stood Senator Mallon. 

"Ah-h!" he repeated, addressing Smith. "To 
what, may I ask, do we owe this — unexpected hon- 
our? " 

His voice was a triumph in studied insolence. 

Cholliewollie stepped to Edith's side. 

"If you will leave us. Miss Mallon, for a moment," 
he said in a low tone. 

"Would it be best.'" she asked, whispering the 

"Much," he answered. 

She turned and went out through the door leading 
into the hall. 

Mallon came farther into the room, his stare still 
fixed on Smith. 

"Will you tell me," he repeated, "to what we owe 
this visit from you.'" 

"It WP.S not a visit to you," Smith answered him 

"I never heard of such insolence!" 

The agitator strove to kt 'p his self-control. 

"It might seem so — it does seem so," he said 
quietly, "but this was an affair in which Miss Mal- 
lon's peace of mind was threatened. And, since 
that was true, nothing could have kept me away." 
He took a step swiftly toward the Senator. "It 



seems to me only fair, Senator Mallon," he said, 
"for you to let me know why you have assumed this 
attitude toward me, why you are so bitter." 

"\ou, yourself, are the answer to your own ques- 
tion," Mallon replied. 

He lit a cigar and tried to look at Smith in real 
contempt. Somehow, he failed in that. 

•■Nort," he ordered, "get out of my house— and 
stay out!" 

Smith regarded him with an expression like pity. 

" You will not tell me why.' " he asked again. 

"Oh, yes," the older man responded with elaborate 
carelessness, "if you want to know. I know what 
you are. I'm on to you — demagogue and faker." 

"One moment!" 

CholliewoUie stepped between the two men and 
faced Mallon. His manner was such as it had been 
the night he had interrogated Simpson in the stuffy 
hotel room. The drawl had gone from his voice. 

"You see. Senator," he said curtly, without a 
smile, " I'm on to you — you big four-flush ! " 

"Don't you dare to " Mallon tried to stop 


"There's no daring about it," Waller assured him 
sternly. "I'm on to you. I've got the goods on 
you. And I'm about to tell you where you get off." 
He turned to Smith with the quick query: 
"You remember you said one day you'd like to 


know why the Senator— this raan here — was so bit- 
terly opposed to you, so personally hostile?" 

Smith nodded. 

*' Well, I know now." He faced the Senator ajraiii. 
"You're a great big man out in your state, you are!" 

Mallon started toward the electric push button. 
His face was purple, except for the thin line of white 
across the bridge of his nose. Waller caught him 
sharply by the arm. 

"No, you don't!" he commanded Mallon. "You 
sit down there! I'm about to tell you a little story." 

The Senator, completely aghast, sank into the chair 
toward which Waller's commanding pressure on his 
arm guided him. The newspaper man stood over 

"You're a great big man out in your state. You 
were a great big man in business fifteen years ago — 
a merchant prince. But merchant princes are lik', 
other people: they overreach themselves sometimes. 
It happened that, at the time when you found your- 
self facing financial ruin and the wiping out of your 
business, some idiot developed the idea that your 
gifts and virtues entitled you to be governor of the 
Smith, seeing the man's agitation, felt remorse. 
"Is this necessary now and here, Waller?" he 
"Very," Waller replied laconically, and proceeded 



with his story: "Who saved you froin the business 
crash? Who, by that act, virtu, matle you gover- 
nor and actually owned you in all your official acts?" 

He snapped his fingers and laughed harshly. His 
anger was apparent, a very personal thing. 

"Ah, these precious whisky interests look far 
ahead and invest their money well, don't they. Sena- 
tor? Who told you to run for the Senate? " 

He leaned forward and snapped his fingers again. 
He seemed to want to drive his questions home to 
Mallon's mind. 

"Who financed your campaign? \Vho sent yoi 
to the Senate? Who owns your senatorship now?" 
He laughed again. "Who told you to forbid Johr 
Smith this house? Wlio ordered you to do it? " 

The Senator moistened his lips with his tongue. 

"Young man," he said, attempting the insolent 
tone, "you're crazy, insaiu'!" 

Waller laughed again. 

"Don't say that to me," he commanded. "I tell 
you I've got the goods on you. Whiffen McNearoyd 
did the work — the great and sublime Whiffen Mc- 
Nearoyd! You and he made the political bargains 
after you and Whiffen, and Silas Unterby, and Hor- 
ace Gardon, and Larry Demonet held the conference 
that saved you from bankruptcy. If you want more, 
I'll give it to you, the details — Silas Unterby, the 
distiller; Horace Gardon, the bottler; Larry Demonet, 



another distiller, and Whiffen — oh, the .>;»•-, >;.?pented 
Whiffen — their jack-of-ull-trades in wked work - 
Whiffen, the man who could buy a ou or stciV a 
legislature as remorselessly and as quick y as Lc could 
starve a child or send a widow into the street!" 

Mallon protested : 

"Nothing but a s' ••ing of names! It's all gibberish 
and stuff!" 

Cholliewollie snapped his fingers and drove his 
right fist into the palm of his left hand with a re- 
sounding thwack. 

"Oh, you big four-flush!" he said harshly. "You 
hypocrite — blood-sucker in the dark — sinner in secret 
places — drinker of vile waters — eater of unclean 
food! Owned, body and soul, by the whisky trust! 
People throw up their hands in holy horror and 
ask how whisky keeps itself entrenched. You're the 
answer to that. They do it through men, through 
things, like you. They go out into the states and 
buy you, buy you where they please, buy you like 
cattle on the hoof, and then they pack you up and 
keep you in cold storage until they need you, until 
they dress you up in the clownish costume of a would- 
be statesman and send you to Washington! They 
buy you and use you, use you until you haven't a 
backbone left ! Bah ! You, you — old man Mallon — 
are the worst of all of them. You cap them all. 
You strike against your daughter's happiness when 



they call! A Senator, a statesman ! That's enough 
to make the gods laugh!" 

The Senator started to rise, but Waller thrust him 
back into the chair. 

"Now listen to me!" The young man's tone was 
matter-of-fact, cold as steel. "From now on, your 
attitude toward the relations — whatever those re- 
lations may be— between your daughter and Mr. 
John Smith undergoes a complete reversal of form." 

It was evident that Mallon saw the futility of re- 

"What do you ask.'" he inquired, his voice shaky. 

"I'm not asking anytliing," Waller replied. "I 
am telling you things. Some day, when I ha- e the 
time, I may print a list of the members of Congress 
polluted by this whisky ownership. But, for the 
present, I merely tell you that you are to cease inter- 
fering with John Smith. And to-day you will give 
out no denial of this reported engagement. Does 
that go.'" 

"Oh," Mallon evaded, "I don't want any argu- 
ment here about " 

"The society reporters. Miss Whiting and Miss 
Hubbard," announced Wales, holding aside the hang- 
ings to admit the two women. 

At the same moment Edith and Mrs. Kane entered 
through the music-room door. Smith turned to speak 
to them. 


"Step into the music-room, Mr. Smith. We can't 
have a scene here." Mrs. Kane suggested quickly. 

Smith, without a moment's hesitation, followed 
her advice. He made his exit without having been 
sc ^n by the reporters. 


Miss Whiting .ind Miss Hubbard made what 
might have been termed a breezy entrance — this, 
in spite of their physiques. Miss Whiting was tall 
and thin, and she had a restless, mechanical smile. 
Her manner .vas one of forced effusiveness, a ner- 
vous, ineffective pretence of great energy, which 
made her seem birdiike in the way in which she 
moved and darted about. Each of her gestures was 
a sharp, stabbing motion. Miss Hubbard was a 
trifle thinner than Miss Whiting, and seemed, with 
the exception of an expression of complete resigna- 
tion to an unkind world, a pale likeness of her com- 

"This is Senator Mallon?" Miss Whiting began 
the conversation with a group of people who, be- 
cause of the sweeping emotions they were then en- 
during, thought of nothing to say. "And Miss 
Mallon?" She bowed to Edith. "How very, very 
nice ! How very nice ! " 

Mallon murmured something about being glad to 
see Miss Whiting and Miss Hubbard. 

"We came to get the denial of the engagement 
story." Miss Whiting's words flowed from her bird- 




like throat. " You see, in a story like this, the young 
lady, the heroine, becomes the most interesting per- 
sonage in modern life. She is discussed over the tea- 
cups and across the wine-glasses. And details are 

"So very essential. Myrtle," Miss Hubbard agreed 
with her friend. 

"Yes. If she likes immortelles better than roses, 
for instance, or if she had a favourite rag doll when 
she was a baby, or if she believes onions quiet the 
nerves— anything of that sort. Senator, is absolutely 

"If you will permit me, Miss Whiting," Waller 
stepped forward, prepared to make a suggestion. 

"Just one moment, Mr. Waller, please," she went 
on, again devoting her attention to the Senator. 
"It would so improve the story if we knew Miss 
Mallon's views on marriage. Has she ever read any 
books on trial marriage, for instance, or does she 
admire the feminist movement.' You know, they 
say the feminists don't believe in the marriage cere, 
mony. It's quite shocking, I know, but in these 
days things have to be shocking in order to be inter- 
esting. And details are so essential for " 

The two reporters had been standing near the 
door through which they had entered. Miss Whit- 
ing's frantic fishing for details was ended, necessarily, 
when the hangings were lifted once more by Wales. 



"I beg your pardon, Miss Mallon," he said, "but 
Miss Mary Leslie wishes to see you — one of the 
Thursday young ladies." 

"Oh, I had forgotten," Edith reproached herself. 
"Tell her to wait a moment in " 

But the visitor evitlcntly had thought she was to 
follow Wales. She came past him slowly, almost 
timidly, and, when she saw the group in the room, 
stood, a fearful, shrinking figure clothed in black, 
just a step over the threshold. Wales dropped the 
hangings behind her and disappeared. 

"I — I wanted to see Miss Mallon," she said in a 
colourless, uncertain tone. 

"I am Miss Mallon," Edith told her, and started 
toward her with the intention of asking her to wait 
in another room. 

But the newcomer hurried to meet her and clasped 
her hand. 

"Oh," she said, sobbing a little, "I'm so glad! 
So glad!" 

Edith felt that the girl's hands trembled. Her 
plain, felt sailor hat was rusty on the edges of the 
brim, and her black suit was shabby, ill-fitting. But 
she was not a girl. She was a woman of twenty- 
seven or, possibly, twenty-eight. That was evident 
in the pale face, a face which had in it too many lines, 
as if the years had been far more heavy than happy. 
Her black hair was done in exaggeration of the pre- 



vailing mode. Her eyes, Edith thought afterward, 
were uncanny. They looked old and very wise, as 
if they had seen many places and many different 
kinds of men and women. And yet, for all their 
wisdom, they looked, also, like depths of sorrow. 
The wisdom .she had gained was not such as to quiet 
the sobs in her throat or to make her hands cease 
For a moment Edith forgot the others around her. 
"Ah," she said kindly, "you arc troubled, aren't 
you? Come vvith me, won't you.' " 

As the two women turned toward the door into the 
hall, the change in positions made Mary Leslie face 
the music-room. 

Her eyes rested on somebody beyond the doorway. 
The click in her throat was audible to everybody in 
the room. It sounded as if her leaping heart had 
crowded the breath from her body. For an instant 
she stood, her face blank from sheer incredulity. 
Even her wise-looking eyi^ were blank, as if they 
had been curtained. She slipped both her hands 
from Edith's grasp and let them fall, limp, at her 
sides. Her lips shaped to a slow smile, and light 
came back to her eyes. She leaned toward the 
music-room and held out her hands. They trem- 
bled. Every bit of her trembled. 

To the others the thing was big, crushing, grim. 
All of them— even the society reporters — knew that 



they looked on a tremendous scene, something vital, 
stark. In the dead silence they almost could hear 
the footfall of tragedy, so entirely did the emotion of 
the shabby-looking, black-clad woman dominate their 

Her thin, white hands trembled oddly before her 
for a few moments before she let them drop again to 
her sides. She still leaned toward the music-room. 

"Why," she said in an awed, wondering voice 
hardly above a whisper, "there's Jack!" 

The smile stayed on her lips and went up into her 

Mrs. Kane was the first to find voice. Edith's 
fascinated gaze w^as, like the strange woman's, tow^ard 
the music-room. 

"What did you say.'" Nellie asked, her voice 

"There he is — in there," Mary Leslie answered. 
She did not shift her gaze, but she brought both her 
hands up to her chest and folded them there.' The 
gesture looked like mute prayer. 

Mallon, appreciating at last what the .scene meant, 
took one step toward the doorway through which the 
woman's steady gaze went. 

"Mr. Smith!" he called out loudly. 

There was a brief pause, during which the others 
could see that Mary's and Edith's eyes followed the 
progress of some one toward the doorway. 



The susp.-nse, cruelly heavy, hung on all of them. 

Smith appeared in the doorway and came into the 
room. Hisexpression was one of curiosity. He looked 
first at Edith, then at Mary Li-slie. Evidently, he 
had not heard what Mary had said about him. 

Mallon turned to Miss Leslie. 

"Well.'" he questioned her a little sharply. 

She held out her hands toward the agitator again, 
supplicating him. 

"It is Jack!" she said, music in her voice for the 
first time, like the whisper of happiness. Her eyes had 
never left him. 

He looked at her gravely. It was apparent that he 
was utterly bewildered. 

" My name is John," he answered firmly. 

Her hands were still toward him, trembling, white, 
and thin. 

"And I am Mary," she said simpi; . 

He answered her with two slow words. 

"Mary who?" 

The smile gradually faded from her face. It was 
as if a brutal, irresistible hand slowly dragged down 
into the mud a beautiful thing. 

"You don't know me.'" 

She said that in a curious, frightened way. She 
seemed to view the thing in some strange, detached 
manner, as if she mechanically calculated the de- 
frees of her own sorrow. There was in her question 



so much panic, and at tlit- same time so much flat 
disappointment, that slic nn'ght have been a musician 
testing a few mournful notes on a flute. There was 
in her tone all the flutes of fear. 

"> J," Smith replied very quietly; "I don't think 
I do." 

"But you!" 

She made the words a lamentation. 

A little pallor oanie into his face. 

"But I don't —really," he contradicted her again. 

She let her hands fall again, slowly, making the 
gesture eloquent of complete surrender, and, ceasing 
to stare at him, surveyed the others a little blindly 

"He says he doesn't know i tc:" she mourned, ad- 
dres.sing nobody definitely. 

Smith, quiet and dignified, looked at her intently. 

"That is true," he told her gently; " I do not know 
you. I do not, I assure you." 

She returned his intent gaze, but she seemed to be 
trying to look within herself, to examine her own 
processes of reasoning, to assure herself of her own 
sanity. There was in her glance incredulity, dis- 
trust of herself and of him. 

"Do you mean to say," she wondered in a low 
voice, "you don't remember me, don't remem- 
ber Shanghai — the time we were there six years 

Smith drew himself more erect. Waller thought 


he braced himself, like a man facing bravely a great 
ar._ unexpected torture. 

"I do not," he repeated. 

Waller stepped forward and addressed Mary Les- 

"May I suggest, madam," he said firmly, "that 
this is hardly the place for a discussion of this sort?" 

She took no note of him. 

"Jack, you do remember," she said to Smith, her 
voice raised. "You must remember!" Entreaty 
was strong in her words. "If you don't, I'll remind 
you." She took one siiort, timid, creeping stej) 
toward him. "You remember Charlie's place — and 
Josie the Spaniard — and the bouts down on the 
river in the moonlight" — her voice broke on that — 
"You remember the boats down on the river, don't 

He stared at her, and paused before he could find 
words with which to exi)ress some of the things that 
went whirling through his brain. His gaze was enough 
to explore her very soul. 

Waller turned to him. 

"Oh, come, old man!" he implored. "This won't 
do at all. Why listen to such a thing? " 

Mallon contradicted the suggestion. 

"We'd better listen," he said roughly. 

"It won't do at all!" Mary acknowledged Waller 
finally. "Well, it won't ! " Her anger was for Waller, 


not for Smith. That was quite evident. "I've found 
this man again, and you say it won't do!" Scorn 
and contempt made her words quick, strong. "He 
ran away from me— ran away!" She struck her 
thin, white fists together. "Do you know what that 
means.' I tell you I am his wife — I was " 

She turned suddenly to Smith and implored him 
with outstretched hands. 

"Why do you stand there and pretend that what 
I say is not true? " She sobbed once. "Oh, why.' " 

To that he made no answer. For the moment 
his mind was busy with Edith, who stood back of 
the other woman, her hands clenched in front of her, 
her face a colourless model for grief. 

"You can't deny it, can you.'" Mary Leslie chal- 
lenged him, personal anger against him lively in her 
voice at last. " Why don't you speak.' " 

He stared at her fixedly. His nostrils dilated with 
the rapidity of his breathing. His features twitched 
as if the gray fingers of the pallor that was upon him 
twisted them sharply. 

"Tell me!" she begged, seeing his suffering. "Don't 
you know me.'" 

He answered her with a great ciTort : 

"I don't know," he said, hoarseness in his throat. 

He heard the half-audible cry from Edith, and, 
without looking at her, saw that she winced as if 
she had been struck. A smile of derision was on 


Mallon's face. The two reporters stirred slightly, 
anticipating even a greater sensation than that which 
they had just witnessed. Mrs. Kane went close to 
Edith and put an arm about her waist. 
Mary Leslie fell back from Smith a step and wailed : 
"You don't know.'" 

They watched him as he stood, drawn to his full 
height like a man facing execution. 
Waller broke in again. 

"This is a framc-up! " he declared angrily. "That's 
what it is— a frame-up! Old man, don't fall for it!" 
Smith did not answer him. 

" What do you mean .' " Mary's thin, wailing voice 
tried to break Smith's silence. " What do you mean 
— you don't know.'" 

Waller grasped his shoulder. 
^^ "Don't pay any attention to her!" he bogged. 
"This is a framo w\ T t ■!! you. Come with me!" 

"Don't!" tbv j.i. • •;•,, voice persisted. "Don't! 
Don't run away from me again ! " 
Smith put Waller's hand away from him. 
"I'm not going to run away," he said, with quiet, 
unnatural calmness. "I shall tell you the truth. I 
shall tell Senator Mallon— everybody here— and, 
through them, the world." 

He spoke in a low, tense voice, and managed to 
convey the impression that he pitied Mary Leslie. 
"I don't know you, and yet you may have known 



me. There may have been a time when I was all 
the world to you. But I do not know. I cannot say." 

He passed the back of his right hand across his 
brow slowly. 

"I don't even know who I am — from where I came 
— my own name. My memory is only five years old." 
He punctuated that wilh a smile infinitely sad. " So, 
you see, I couldn't possibly, under any circumstances, 
know you now. You say you knew me si.\ years 
ago? Five years ago I lost my memory. AVhisky 
destroyed it — utterly. All the life I had lived, all 
the places I had seen, my whole personal history, all 
the thoughts of my brain — everything was wiped 
from my consciousness absolutely and entirely. I 
say, all the thoughts. There was one that left its 
shadow, a ghost, a compelling terror, on my mind: 
That was the knowledge that whisky had dealt me 
this terrific blow." He spread out his hands and 
smiled lightly. "That is why I do not like whisky." 
He spoke very gently. " I do not believe I ever knew 
you — ever knew you very well. I don't think I ever 
did. But I cannot say." 

On the end of that there was only Edith's shud- 
dering cry as she sank into the chair beside her. Mrs. 
Kane bent over her, shielding her from the view of 
the others. 

Edith's grief had a great and immediate effect on 
Smith. He wheeled upon Mailon, and, as he moved. 



there was in his figure and in his face all his cus- 
tomary brilliancy, il his alertness, all his anient 

"What I do believe," he said in ringing tones, "is 
that the other side instigated this whole scene to dis- 
credit me in the eyes of Congress and the country. 
They think llie3' can defeat the movement for which 
I stand by branding me as a man with a criminal 
past. How foolishly they have planned! Even if 
they could prove me guilty of the most revolting, the 
most degraded, conduct, they would insure merely 
their own downfall. I am only one, a unit, an in- 
finitesimal fraction, in the great sum of public opin- 
ion against which they fight in vain." 

Mallon put up a hand to interrupt him. He dis- 
regarded him. 

"You will hear me now! Look at me as I am — a 
miserable man, a makeshift, one , ho does not know 
his own identity! Back of me there is hung, from 
the heavens to my heels, a wall of darkness from be- 
hind which nameless horrors may spring upon me in 
the twinkling of an eye. Instead of memories to 
soothe my soul, I have the sword of suspense to tor- 
ture my mind. Instead of the lessons of experience 
to light my way, I entertain weird creatures of self- 
suspicion that drag me back. Look at me as I am ! — 
this miserable man, unknowing and unknown ! Think 
of it!" 


He paused and stood a moment, his arras outspread, 
a statue of woe, a man upon whose head the bolts 
of the world's anguish had fallen. Waller laid his 
hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off. His spirit 
was aflame, brave, in rebellion. lie was fighting 
against the other side. He was possessed with the 
eager desire to throw upon the world's 
the exact picture of what he had suffered. 

"There is nothing I care to conceal," he said to 
Waller, and added to Mallon: "Imagine, if you can, 
some of the degrees of my infinite misery. Picture 
my yearning to go back through the years and weep 
beside the grave of one whose startled soul, following 
folly with me, may have met death unaware. Meas- 
ure, if you can, the fine torture born of the fear that 
some time, somewhere, I stilled the laughter of a 
child or taught a woman to weep anew." 

He pointed, with lightning-like gesture, to Mary. 

"Right here, in our very presence, is the concrete 
example of what I mean. If I have known this 
woman, if I have brought her to her tears, what 
would I not give if I had tried long ago to undo the 
wrong.' " 

His voice rang with scorn. 

"And yet, my enemies think to use me as an argu- 
ment in behalf of whisky! They believe they cac 
say to the country, 'Look at him, think of what he 
•uffers, and then be persuaded that what he preaches 


is all wrong ! ' They jeer at me who, rising from the 
ashes of my own destruction, dared to lift my voice 
against the thing that struck me down. I tell you 
that they are all wrong! Tell the people, tell Con- 
gress, what I am; describe to them the agony of my 
appalling repentance; picture me as cut off from the 
love of woman and the hope of children. Let them 
advertise the fact that I grope my way through the 
days and nights with a crippled mind and a trembling 
and twisted soul. Let them say that I am an exile 
from love and an alien to peace!" 
^ His scorn possessed the air, like a writhing, lashing, 
live thing. 

"Let them say all that, and let them boast, 
'Whisky did these things to this man. Therefore, 
mothers, give whisky to your sons. Whisky hurt 
John Smith, who cries out against it. Whisky tore 
down his ideals and wiped out the dreams of his 
youth. Therefore, men, give whisky to your women !' 
There! You have it— their whole argument— the an- 
guish of a man who cannot tell whether in the years 
that are dead he loved a wretched woman whose shrill 
voice assails him in the sight of men. Let them make 
the most of it ! Let them blazon it to the world— and 
spell out of it the certain syllables of their own ap- 
proaching doom I " 

He stood with upflung right hand, his spirit ex- 
alted, his whole attitude a brave defiance. 




Edith, springing to her feet and indicating Mary 
Leslie with a gesture, carried the defiance further. 

"I know," she said, her voice silver-clear, "you 
never knew kerl" 

" He did ! " Mary shrilled. " He did ! " 

Suddenly he looked worn, weary. 

"I have told you that— already," he said dully. 
"I— don't— know." 


The terrific tension that had held the group spell- 
bound snapped at last. The situation had been 
sucked dry. Its actors and auditors felt that there 
was nothing more. The thing was done-played 
out. They began to change their positions, to 
breathe more freely. Smith, turning without a word 
to anybody, followed Waller out of the room. As he 
went he was conscious that the two reporters rushed 
toward Mary Leslie to ply her with questions; that 
Mrs. Kane and Edith started toward the music-room 
door; that Senator Mallon's call to Waller to come 
back was unanswered. 

In the street. Smith moved like a man impelled by 
a craving for action, speed, hurry. 

"I want to go with you." Waller made the first re- 
mark smce leaving the house. He spoke in a jesUng 
tone, seekmg to relieve the emotional strain. "But 
I can't keep up if you walk like this." 

"I wonder," Smith answered him, "if we can get a 
taxicab anywhere near here." 

"Yes; there's a garage around on NineteenUi 





"Let's go there." 

They walked a little farther in silence. 

"Of course," Smith said at last, "I'm wondering 
what effect it will have." 

"And I'm wondering," Waller retorted reproach- 
fully, "why you didn't confide in me long ago." 

The agitator smiled slightly, touched by the other's 
evident devotion to him. 

"Oh," he said, "what could have been the use?" 

They were conversing jerkily, tersely, as men do 
when they are greatly moved. 

"It must have been pretty tough on you," Chol- 
liewoUie said. "I never suspected how very tough 
it was." 

Smith was looking straight ahead. 

"It has been hell," he agreed simply. 

"And yet, you have so much to make you feel at 
this moment very proud." 

"Ah," Smith exclaimed, with a touch of impa- 
tience, "how can I feel proud? What can a man 
boast when he put in more than thirty years of his 
life doing so little that he left behind him neither 
sign nor trail? Why, the only way I can guess at 
my age is to take what the doctors deduct from my 
general physical condition. And how can I feel at 
ease? If what that woman has just said is true — if 
a fractional part of it is true — how can I really know 
that there i«n't murder behind me, that tome night 


I didn't leave a stark, cold thing lying on the road- 
side with its sightless eyes turned toward the moon? 
How can I know that the faces of those whom I 
should have loved have not been ravaged by grief 
because of me? Those are the things, the thoughts, 
the fears, that swoop down on me and blot out at 
times all the light in my soul." 

To ChoUiewollie, he seemed too near a break- 
down. He had never heard him speak with such 

"There is this to be remembered," the newspaper 
man took a new tack: "the Leslie woman's story 
IS a lie. That's certain." 

"Why is it certain?" 

"Somehow, I know it. I haven't been in my 
business all this time for nothing. I've felt for weeks 
that the whisky people had something on you. I've 
been more afraid of it than you have. But this 
—why, this is a cheap grandstand play. It's too 

"She seemed," Smith commented heavily, "tre- 
mendously in earnest, thoroughly sincere." 

"But she was lying," Waller persisted, and, when 
the other made no reply, continued: "If I can only 
write this thing the way it happened ! If I can only 
get into my story all the things you said! It was 
wonderful, immense. I believe it wiU do you more 
good than harm." 





"The way you will write it, yes; but how about all 
the other stories that will go out of Washington to- 
day and to-night?" 

"Leave that to me," ChoUiewollie cheered him. 
"There'll be a parade like a bread line into my office 
to-night. Everj' correspondent in town will want 
the carbon copy of the story of the man who wit- 
nessed the scene. And my sto.y will be the thing 
that will give them their first impression of what 
happened. That's 50 per cent, of the whole 

"What would you advise me to do to-day?" 

"Go back to your office and get to work as usual. 
I know it'll be hard, but it's the thing to do." 

"And the newspaper men? " 

"Receive them this afternoon as usual. Answer 
their questions." 

"That will be easy," Smith smiled. "I don't 
know anything." 

"Exactly," Waller agreed. "That's what makes 
it good." 

"And what will become of the Leslie woman?" 

"Oh, they'll all get statements from her and elabo- 
rate her story. You'll have to remember that. To- 
morrow will be a field day for her in the papers. 
Your turn will come later." 

"Yes, I understand that." 

"But I'm not through with her. I intend to get 


the truth from her sooner or later. She was lying. 
I know she was lying." 

They reached the garage and took a taxicah, 
directing the chauffeur to drive to Suiitli's offices. 

The agitator sat leaning a little forward, looking 
through the window nearest him. He was con- 
fronted by the big menace of his life, as far as ho 
knew his life. Whether true or false, tiic accusation 
that had been made against him might break 
irretrievably the hold he had had on the imagina- 
tion and hearts of the country. The people who 
followed him and looked up to him were, nrcessarily, 
the best element of the population, men a.,d women 
to whom the moral and the decent must make a 
final and strong appeal. And the thing laid at 
his door was something that could not be explained 

His personality, however brilliant and however 
commanding, might not be taken as a complete ref- 
utation of what had been charged against him. In- 
deed, the chances were that he could not refute it. 
He confessed his ignorance of all that had been said. 
"I don't know," did not sound hke a convincing 
denial of an offence against the laws of God and man. 
These things came into his mind compellingly, but, 
over them all, was his memory of Edith's face, Edith's 
shuddering cry. The opposition had struck him in 
the two vital spots: the work and the woman. Un- 



consciously, as his thoughts whirled, he put out his 
hand and laid it on Waller's knee. 

Cholliewollie knew what tlie other had been think- 
ing. He knew, also, that new thoughts must take 
the place of those if Smith was to continue his ef- 

"Crawdlor got back to town last night," he in- 
formed Smith. "I told him you wanted him to 
make the motion from the floor to discharge the 
committee from further consideration of the pro- 
hibition resolution and to pass it by a vote of the 

"What did he say.'" Smith inquired absently. 

"He said that, next to being President, he'd rather 
do that than anything else in the world." 

"Crawdlor's a good man" — Smith gave a little 
more of his attention to the conversation — "a good 
man and a good Congressman." 

"I'm going to put out an interview from him to- 
night," Waller went on. "I wrote it myself and 
showed it to him. He said it was all right." 

"What's il about, specifically?" 

"He enumerates the bip' men who are back of this 
movement, the strong fighters who are out for pro- 
hibition. You know the lobby has been saying you 
had no powerful following. M-'-^hell was out yester- 
day with a statement that you were the leader of a 
lot of women and cranks." 



"Oh, did he say that? You know nearly all of 
history has been made by women and cranks." 

"That's a good line!" Waller exaggerated his 
enthusiasm. "I'll stick it into the interview. Any- 
way, Crawdlor points out that there arc twelve men 
in the House and one in the Senate who had to go to 
Keeley Institutes to get the liquor out of them be- 
fore they could realize the possibilities for greatness 
and usefulness that were in them. The list of your 
supporters is a dandy. It includes three ex-governors 
of states, two millionaires, a famous evangelist, and 
a line of Senators, Cabinet officers. Representatives, 
and big state officials that would reach from here to 

When they stepped to the pavement. Waller told 
the chauffeur to wait and drew Smith aside. 

"What have you on for to-day.'" he asked. 

"I want to get through with the last details of the 
line of march." 

" What have you decided.' " 

"It won't do to bring them all down Pennsylvania 
Avenue. It would take too long. You see, we esti- 
mate a crowd of fifty thousand — some of them old, 
many of them women and children. Besides, I 
want to carry out the symbolism of the idea that the 
whole country is marching to the Capitol to ask for 
this thing. I want the marchers to approach the 
Capitol from all four .sides — Pennsylvania Avenue, 




North Capitol Street, East Capitol Street, and up by 
Delaware Avenue. I want the whole mass to come 
to the doors of that building from all directions." 

■'That's perfect — and perfectly appropriate." 

He started to leave Smith, but hesitated. 

"Tell me," he urged; "what's bothering you.' 
There's .something puzzling you this minute. Whr ' 
is it.'" 

Smith looked at him seriously. 

"I was wondering," he said gravely, "whether I'd 
better give up the plan of leading the line down the 
avenue. I mean, on account of what has occurred 

"Give up!" Wilier exclaimed. "Not on your 
life! I'd leaa !i at line in spite of hail, high water, 
andhiccough.s; That's what I would do. Now, I'm 
going up and get my story out. The sooner the 
better. I'll drop back here as soon as possible." 

He shook Smith's hand and went back to the cab, 
directing the chauffeur to go to his newspaper office. 

He stepped in, took his seat, lit a cigar, and then, 
as if on impulse, put his head out the window and 
drawled to the driver: 

"It may be of interest to you to know that the man 
you brought down here has got more real nerve than 
vou ever saw — enough nerve to stand up against 
what would cut the hearts out of seventeen million 
Goliaths in two and a half seconds ! " 


When Waller reached his office ihe storm had 
broken in the newspaper world, presaging the hurri- 
cane of sensation, blame, acclamation, criticism, and 
question that would sweep the country that evening 
and the following day. He tried to start his story, 
but could not. Telephone calls came to him one 
after the other. The news had swept through the 
newspaper and political part of the city as if by 
magic. Correspondents were already sending their 
papers bulletins announcing that they were about to 
put on the wire the " big story." Men talked eagerly 
about it in the hotel lobbies, at the Capitol, in the 
office buildings, on the street corners. Waller, sit- 
ting in his office, had a mental picture of the excite- 
ment, the perturbation among the prohibitionists, 
the exultation of the whisky people, the doubts of 
some of the Smith supporters, the quick rallying to 
his side of his most earnest followers. And he knew 
that nearly every person was asking another: 

"WTiat will people think of it.' What will people 

He thought, a little grimly, that few people have 



any opinions of their own, that most of them merely 
reflect the thoughts of others, that nearly all are too 
much like sheep. The great thing was to give the 
sensation the right twist, the proper slant, to make 
them say, "He's all right," instead of, "He's all 

The telephone calls multiplied and piled up. To 
all of them he answered that at four o'clock he would 
have his story ready. When the representatives of 
the afternoon papers said they could not wait, he 
answered that he was sorry but that they would have 
to satisfy themselves with what everybody was say- 
ing about the incident. In his own mind, he knew 
that the verdict would come from the morning papers, 
from the finished and complete stories, not from the 
sketchy and necessarily fragmentary articles slapped 
on the wire by men who had not time enough to re- 
read their copy in search of mistakes. Finally, he 
locked his door, took the receiver off the hook, and sat 
down at his typewriter to get out the story which, he 
hoped, would turn the tide in favour of the agitator. 

At the end of an hour and a half, a few minutes 
before four o'clock, he arose from the machine, 
stretched his tired arms and shoulders, and began to 
put together the pages of a story which would cover 
two columns and a half. He had made six carbon 
copies of it. It was a good story. He "felt" that. 
It had in it some of Smith's fire and eloquence — and a 


great deal of Smith's anguish. Afterward, when other 
members of his profession had time to comment, they 
said it was a great piece of dramatic writing. 

He called an oflSce boy, gave him one of the copies, 
and instructed him to take it to a public stenogra- 
pher's oflSce and have a hundred copies run off atonce. 
He kept the other copies he had made and called up 
the Press Club and the offices of several correspond- 

"Now," he thought, "let them come! I'm ready 
for them!" 

They did come. In fifteen minutes the room was 
crowded with little groups of men, their heads bent 
over the various copies, heads which, as the reading 
progressed, were shaping up the opening paragraphs 
and the structure of the stories they would get out, 
stories which, in a few hours, would do more than 
any other one thing to determine whether John 
Smith was to survive or go down in obloquy and 
blame. Cholliewollie had been right when he had 
said to Smith that he would do much to give the 
agitator the best of the news dispatches. 

At a quarter to six the writers were still coming 
in. He had instructed the office boy to deliver copies 
to every newspaper and correspondent's office in town. 
Now he led the crowd to the cars on their way to 
Smith's offices. 
The agitator, stepping from the inner office, con- 




fronted the semicircle of eager faces and bowed his 

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." 

There was nothing unusual in his demeanour. His 
smile was the same. He did not even look tired. 
As always before, he impressed them as a man vi- 
brant with energy. He held in his left hand a paper 
which, some of them observed, was a map of the city 
of Washington. Evidently he had just left his desk 
to meet them. Every man facing him sensed to a 
nicety how near John Smith stood to tragedy and 
ruin. They were trained to "get" and estimate the 
force of events, the probable consequences of na- 
tional affairs, the results of clashing personalities. 
And all of them, watching him intently, thought that 
he must be a brave man. 

So keen was their appreciation of what the thing 
meant, so accurate their prevision of the danger 
threatening him, that for a few seconds nobody put 
the question they all wanted to ask. 

He bowed slightly again and asked pleasantly: 

"What is it j'ou want to ask, gentlemen?" 

"They've got all the essential facts, Mr. Smith," 
Waller spoke up. "They've seen my story, and that 
covered everything thathappenedatSenator Mallon's 

"Perhaps," Smith suggested, "it might be easier 
for all of us, might cover everything more promptly, 




if I told you in my own words all there is to tell. In 
fact, what I said this morning in Senator Mallon's 
house is all I could say now. It is all — that is, 
it is all I know. Naturally, a man with a memory 
five years old cannot speak, either accurately or by 
guess, of things said to have happened six years ago. 
That seems quite logical, doesn't it? I realize the 
things you would psk, the things you would like to 
know. Believe me, gentlemen, your desire to knonr 
them cannot be one half so great as mine. Here 
you are, before me, thrusting your heads against 
the stone wall of my ignorance of my own past. 
Well"- — he spread out his hands in a hopeless gesture, 
and smiled — "I have had my head against that same 
stone wall for exactly five years. Your concern about 
the facts this evering may give you some idea of 
what — how shall I say it — of what I have suffered 
each day and each night. You see, that is all. I 
told my story this morning." 

The sallow-faced young man who, by this time, 
had built up a reputation for his questioning powers, 
put the first query: 

"Is it true that Mallon forbade you his house?" 
"Yes," Smith said quietly; ''that is true." 
"And are you engaged to be married to Miss 
Mallon?" the interrogator went further. 

"No," the answer came with the same quietness, 
the same directness; "that is not true." 



There was a stir among the men facing him, as if, 
in spite of their reE'izalion that a public man under 
fire cannot hope to ke<^p his private life out of the 
publicity glare, they resented his being wounded un- 

Avery, tall, snappy, on the alert, gave the con- 
versation a new turn. 

"Perhaps, Mr. Smith," he suggested, "you might 
like to hear the Les — the woman's story as she told 
it to me." 

"Yes," he agreed quickly, "I should like to, very 

Avery produced a copy of his story. 

"I'll read you merely what she said, her own 
words," he explained. 

While Avery read, every man in the room watched 
the agitator. Apparently unconscious of their scru- 
tinj', he was listening, not so much with eagerness as 
with a concentrated, calculating interest, as if he 
strove to remember, tried to drive his brain to do a 
work of which it was incapable. It was plain that 
he was groping in the dark, beating aimlessly about 
in the sea of ideas brought forward by what Mary 
Leslie had said. 

Avery read her words: 

"I am his wife. My maiden name was Mary Leslie. 
I was bom and brought up in Des Moines, Iowa. Hif 
name is Jack Gardner. I don't know where he was bom 


but it was somewhere in the South, in Virginia, I think. 
We met in Shanghai. I had gone out there as a trained 
nurse. He had some money, and he married me a week 
after he met me. Then he got to hitting the pipe— opium. 
He had been hitting it before he married me. 

"You know, without my telling you, what that meant. 
Thmgs went to pieces. He got me into the habit. We 
used to go to a place on the Foochow Road. I guess it's 
still there. It was known as the House with the Red- 
lacquered Balcony, and it was run by a Portuguese we 
called Charlie. 

"As I said, things got worse and worse. My husband's 
money gave out. He didn't have much, after all. Then 
I waked up one morning in Charlie's place to find that I 
had been deserted. I never saw the man again until 
to-day when I went to see Miss Edith Mallon. I went to 
see her because I was down and out. I've been down and 
out a good many times. When Gardner left me in Shang- 
hai, I had to work as a servant. I got back to the States 
by coming over as a lady's maid. I came to Washington 
to try for a position as an army nurse. Those are the 

Avery stopped reading and looked at Smith. 

"That's her story, sir," the correspondent said. 

The agitator addressed himself to Avery : 

"It recalls nothing, absolutely nothing, to my 
mind," he said. 

Those who heard him recognized the regret, the 
sadness, in his voice. There could be no doubt of 
the fact that he was sorry he could get nothing from 



the story. It was evident that his great desire was 
to get light on the matter from somewhere. 

"Does she explain," Waller asked Avery, "why 
she is known as Mary Leslie if she is really Mrs. John 

"Oh, of course, she explains it," Avery said care- 
lessly. "It's the obvious explanation: She pre- 
ferred to resume her maiden name." 

Smith put one brief question : 

"And the proof of this marriage?" 

"She has no documentary evidence," Avery re- 
plied, "but she claims it was in Shanghai. Several 
news associations have cabled to Shanghai to get all 
that end of the story." 

AValler explained to Smith: 

"Under favourable conditions, we ought to get 
something from Shanghai in six or seven hours. It's 
six o'clock here now. It's nine o'clock in the morning 
there. We ought to hear something to-night." 

"That is," Avery modified, "if the men there find 

"Look here, Avery," Waller asked; "how did she 
strike you? Don't you know she was lying? " 

Avery hesitated. 

"You know," he said, "it's hard to tell when a 
woman like that is lying — or how much. And it 
struck me — I'm talking frankly now, Mr. Smith- 
that she must have some facts to go on. And the 


way she sticks to her story is immense. Five of us 
put her through a regular third degree, and she told 
always the same thing. She's firm— and, if she is 
lying, there's another Bernhardt thrown away." 
Smith bowed, making no comment. 
"Is there anytliing else, gentlemen.'" he inquired. 
There was much else they wanted to know, hut, 
realizing his helplessness, they filed out of the room. 
Each one of them was in a hurry. All of them knew 
that they were about to write the strangest, most 
fascinating story that had ever come to light in Wash- 
ington. They were intent on the story as a story, 
and did not think much then of the probable effect 
of what they would write. It was their business to 
tell the news to the country, and they wanted to tell 
it in the best way possible. 

Thanks to Waller and to Smith's own personality, 
the "best way possible," in their eyes, was to de- 
scribe the agitator's suffering and to depict the day's 
events in a way that would create for him sympathy 
and support. 

Waller lingered with him for a few minutes. 
"I wish you'd tell me exactly how you feel about 
this thing," the newspaper man asked him. 
"How do you mean.' " 

"I don't like to rush off and leave you here with all 
this work and the greater burden of what the day has 
brought forth. I'd like to know just how you feel." 


"I don't think I feel at all yet," Smith answered 
him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I've been 
making a great effort to dissociate myself, person- 
ally, from it, to keep at the work. I can't trust my- 
self yet to consider what it may mean to my per- 
sonal happiness. And I'm afraid — a little afraid 
of what the country will say to-morrow." 

"Let us attend to that," Waller cheered him. 
"You do the work — and you'll get by." 

"At any rate," he concluded, "I would give almost 
anything in the world to walk this minute into the 
House with the Red-lacquered Balcony on the Foo- 
chow Road." 

He dined alone that evening in a quiet little res- 
taurant, where he knew he would not be annoyed 
by the curious. As he left the place, a man stepped 
up to him and touched him on the arm. He stopped. 
His thoughts had been such as to make him welcome 
anybody he had never seen before. There was in his 
mind for an instant the hope that this stranger also 
might know something about him. A second glance 
showed that the man had been drinking. 

"What can I do for you?" Smith responded to the 
touch on his arm and to the close scrutiny. 

The stranger was about forty-five years of age, 
seedy as to his dress, unke.rpt as to his linen and 
cravat. In spite of the onslaughts alcohol had made 
on his appearance, there was in his face the hint 


of a bygone decency, the ghost of a real intellect. 
He was pudgy and short of stature. 

"May I walk a little way with you?" he requested, 
his voice a little thick. "I can tell you some inter- 
esting things." 

"By all means," the agitator agreed. 

They fell into step together. It was a crisp, clear 
evening. Overhead the moon, dimming the street 
lights, hung in a silver sash of fleecy clouds. 

"I know who you are," the stranger began, "the 
prohibition leader. You can take a look at me and 
know who I am. I'm the Man Who Could Handle 
It. I belong to that noble army of sports who drink 
on a system and have whisky under perfect control." 

He spoke in a vein of broad sarcasm, in tune with 

"That is, I used to be the Man Who Could Handle 
It. I now decorate the ranks of those who have 
gone down and out. As the Man Who Could Handle 
It, I was a star performer. My will power was 
beautiful to behold. My physique was impervious 
to all ills and pains. I could work and attend to 
business all the time— could do it just a little better 
with a few drinks under my belt. The alcohol was 
hat my system needed. The drinks gave me a 
.hole lot of bright ideas, and it made me sociable 
and popular." 

He stopped a moment, full in the moonlight. 




"You've heard that talk before, haven't you?" 
he inquired solemnly. 

"Many times," Smith assented, falling into step 

"I felt a real scorn for the fellows who got drunk. 
I studied some of them quite closely. They were 
curiosities to me. The stuff was meant to be en- 
joyed, not abused. I thought the drunkards were 
swine. That went on for ten years. For ten years 
I was the Man Who Could Handle It. Other men 
admired me for it. One or two told me it would get 
me some day. I laughed at that. I was a genius. 
I could see all the others going either to the uncom- 
fortable gutter or to the untimely grave, but I 
couldn't see how I would ever take either route. I 
watched the army of wrecks, and knew I had some- 
thing on them. You see, I could handle it." 

His self-contempt grew. 

"Then one night I got drunk. A year after that 
I waked up one morning and had to have a drink 
before I could eat breakfast. Right there occurred 
the full extinction of the Man Who Could Handle 
It; and there was born the Man Whom It Handled. 
That's a grand metamorphosis, my friend. You see 
I call you 'my friend.' Dissipation makes us familiar. 
A grand metamorphosis, I say, from the Man Who 
Could Handle It to the Man Whom It Handled. And 
you can take it from me that its handling is rough." 


"Always," Smith emphasized. He was keenly in- 
terested in what the man had to say. 

"I'm a type," the other continued. "You can 
find me in any of the cheap, dirty saloons or in any 
of the swell clubs. I belonged to a swell club once. 
However, we'll let that pass. Yes, you can find me 
in any of those places. There's a big army of me- 
an inspiring, lovely line of men with their efficiency 
gone, their livers hardened, their kidneys ruined, their 
brains foggy, their waistline too big, their reputa- 
tions too little. They are the boys who could handle 
it. They're the fellows who despised the drunkards 
and thespreers." 

They had reached tlie entrance to Smith's office 
building, where they paused. 

"But I merely wanted to tell you," concluded the 
Man Who Could Handle It, "that nobody can 
handle it. It'll get you in the long run or the ihort. 
The shorter, the better. It may take a month or it 
may take ten years, but some fine morning you wake 
up and find your master right there at the side of the 
bed, and he reaches out and puts his cold, clammy 
fingers around your throat and leads you to the bot- 
tle. When tliat happens, my friend, it's all over 
but the shouting. You belong to the saloons or the 
club bars, and you wonder when the undertaker will 
come along and be kind to you and bury you. You 
hope it will be soon, but it never comes quite soon 



enough. The stuff you could handle, handles you 
quite thoroughly. It introduces you to the death- 
in-life." He made an elaborate bow. "Remember 
me. You can't forget me. You'll see me every day, 
everywhere — the Man Who Could Handle It." 

He turned on his heel and went down the street 
without a backward glance. Smith, looking up to 
the sky, wondered how long it had been since the 
Man Who Could Handle It had been able even to 
realize that there were nights when the moon hung 
in a silver sash. 

That was a hard night for the agitator. His of- 
fice force, working overtime every night now, went 
home at eleven. He stayed on until twelve, labour- 
ing with his work, fighting desperately against de- 
pression, denying himself to all callers and telephone 

A few minutes past midnight Waller came in and 
reported : 

"There's nothing from Shanghai to-night." 


The agitator's first thought the following morn- 
ing was of a woman's figure leaning toward Mm in a 
doorway and swaying like a reed in the flow of heavy 
waters. And, immediately upon that, c;ir,ie tiie pic- 
ture of her as she had stood the day before, crrieved 
but valiant. He put the image of licr out 1/ his 
mind, his effort in doing so being as diiei-i aiui pal- 
pable as if he had tried to lift a tremendous^ wig I. ■ I 
with his right arm. 

While he dressed and breakfasted in his rooms, he 
looked at the headlines in the Washington and Nc« 
York papers which were brought to him every morn- 
ing. There it was before him : the story of himself, 
his confession and defiance, Mary Leslie's story, all 
topped with the big-lettered headlines that ran any- 
where from two columns wide to the breadth of the 
whole front page. His photograph and Mary Les- 
lie's were reproduced by each paper. 

Few people have had the sensation of being tried 
by the press. It is, in a way, more terrible than be- 
ing tried by a court. In court there is always the 
chance of appeal. Against the newspaper comt 




there is no redress. A man, sitting alone at break- 
fast, se'es his face; on the printed pag"-, roads the 
tilings he has said and the things others have said 
about him, realizes at first imperfectly that he is the 
one on whom the glare is turned, and comes to know, 
tinally, that he must stand up and take it all. Big 
men have spent years trying to overtake the effects 
of a newspaper article — and have not succeeded. 

Smith read ChoUiewollie's article to the end. 

"Good boy!" he thought gratefully. "At least, 
you don't drawl when you write." 

He examined the other headlines and stories with 
what he tried to make a judicial mind. On the 
whole, he was immensely gratified. He had been 
given the best of it so far. Several of the writers 
had intimated that the woman's story and her de- 
meanour could not command belief. Others had 
built their lead on Smith's contention that, if I'er 
story were true, it merely proved the righteou.'sii' -i 
of his fight against whisky. One of the New York 
papers ran an editorial on the matter sounding a 
ringing alarm against anybody weakening in support 
of him at such a critical time in the movement. 

Thinking gratefully that the worlil wjis very kind, 
he was laying down a paper when his eye caught the 
Shanghai date-line. Evidently, from the small space 
given to the dispatch, it had come in too late to per- 
mit of its being displayed largely. 


There was, it said, a House with the Red-lacquered 
Balcony on the P'oochow Road, as Mary Leslie had 
described it. 

There was a Portuguese, Charlie by name, who 
owned it, and now, since the opium trade had been 
discontinued, conducted it as a restaurant. 

The Portuguese was not rich in details. His mem- 
ory was vague. But he remembered a wild American 
named Gardner and a woman who used to be seen 
with him. He did not know whether they were mar- 

There had not been time, when the cablegram was 
written, to make any other investigation, in the offi- 
cial records or elsewhere, regarding the alleged mar- 

He was reading the dispatch for the third time 
when a bellboy brought him a note. The envelope 
had not been stamped. It had been left, late the 
night before, the boy explained, with directions that 
it should be delivered to him early in the morning. 

On a sheet of notepaper was written: 

" You are your own lo-morrow." 

It was signed "Edith Mallon." 

His brain reeled The memory of her standing 
in the doorway, the fragrance of her hair the day 
she had stood close to him on the edge of the river, 
the thought of her brave sweetness — these things 



came Pn a. blessed relief from the momentary but 
deep depres io ' he liad felt after reading the cable- 
gram from Shanghai. He got up and raised one of 
the windows so that he might breathe the fresh air. 
He drank it into his lungs in great gulps. A group 
of photographers stood on the pavement below, wait- 
ing for snapshots of him as he started to his office 
on what everybody regarded as the decisive day in 
his career. He understood some of that. 

He thrust Edith's note into his pocket and put on 
his overcoat and hat. 

As he left the room, he was forcing through hia 
brain the triumphant thought: 

" This is /Ae day! T/iw is < fie fight!" 

It was as if he called his own soul to arms. 

Once in his office, he became the storm centre of 
the country's political thought that day. Waller, 
with both hands full of telegrams, met him in 
the reception-room. Smith did not know it, but 
the newspaper man had had only two hours of 

"You don't have to read them," Waller said, the 
drawl in his voice not hiding his elation. "They're 
all good — all for us." 

"This early ! " Smith was surprised. 

"Most of these are night letters, sent after the 
afternoon's hit the street yesterday. But some, sent 
this morning, have come in already." 


They were in the inner office, and Smith was tak- 
ing off his coat. 

"What do they say?" he inquired impatiently. 

" They say you're all right. Those few words sum 
up more different kinds of laudation, assurances of 
support, and genuine admiration than I ever saw on 

Smith gave him a swift, keen look, with the ques- 

"And no other kind? " 

"Oh, of course, some," Waller replied, his enthu- 
siasm unabated, "but, so far, we're sweeping the 
towns and outlying districts ! " 

The agitator sat down at his desk and opened the 
first of the letters that had been placed there for 

ChoUiewoUie looked at him a moment in undis- 
guised wonder. 

"Say! What is this you're exhibiting, real nerve? 
Or are you just numb and can't think? " 


"Here you arc, up against the liottest, bitterest 
fight in the world, and you sit down to read vour 

"What else is there to do?" Smith inquired, eying 
him seriously. 
"Don't you want to read the telegrams? " 
" If I did that, I'd put in the whole day at it." 



One of the stenographers brought in a new batch 
of yellow envelopes. 

" You see," he added. 

"Oh, I know!" Waller admitted. "But can't you 
show some nervousness, some excitement? " 

Smith's smile was one of great affection. 

"I can't," he said. "We've got just a week to 
put this thing over. The days aren't long enough 
to let us do the work we should do. It is a hot fight, 
as you say. They think they have a chance to ruin 
this demonstration. Well, I'm just a little hotter 
as a fighter than they are. Believe me, I am. And 
I'm fighting now. I'm going through this mail to 
see what needs attention. After that, we'll see what 
else needs attention. P'igliting is working." 

"By Jove, you're right!" Waller agreed. "But 
what do you want done with these messages.'" 

"If you'll do it, keep track of them, read tlu-m all, 
and don't bring any to me imless it deals with some 
delegation wishing to cancel its engagement to come 
to Washington. If any others need answering, you 
answer them. Will you do that?" 

"Certainly, you know I'll be on this job until night. 
But" — he held up .several unfolded telegrams — " here's 
one from a governor, one from the biggest bishop in 
the West, two from Senators, one from — — " 

"I know, I know. But they were to be expected, 
in a way, weren't they? Such men as those stand 


for llie cause, not for me. That's the thing I hate. 
I'm afraid of being a dead weiglit on the movement, 
not a help to it." 

"You miglit be a weight," Waller drawled, smil- 
ing slowly, "l)ut not a dead one. And how about 
the newspaper men?" 

'Til see them at eleven this morning, as usual, of 
course — and this afternoon." 

As a result of these arrangements, while the agi- 
tator, methodical and effective, stayed at his desk, 
dictating necessary correspondence, conferring with 
men and women on countless details of the arrange- 
ments in town and out, and maintaining his grasp on 
the whole sclieme. Cholliewollie became the buffer 
against which the waves of the country's senti- 
ment and opinions broke. He answered innumerable 
telephone calls, local and long-distance, meant to 
cheer and encourage Smith. With the aid of a stenog- 
rapher, he opened and read and, after a fashion, 
tabulated the telegrams. They came from all sec- 
tions, from everywhere, delivered in batches of fours, 
eights, and dozens. Tlicy were from politicians, 
ministers of the gospel, wcallliy men, prominent men, 
women, philanthropists, city and state leaders in the 
prohibition movement, people representing, it ap- 
peared, all walks of life, all professions, and all call- 

The vast majority expressed the determination 




of the senders to stand by Smith and the demonstra- 
tion, no matter what was said about him. A few 
called the story, all of it, including Smith's state- 
men t, a fake pure and simple. Others said they knew 
it was a huge conspiracy hatched by the whisky in- 
terests. Some demanded to be told by Smith whether 
he really had forgotten who he was or was trying to 
hide disgraceful conduct behind a subterfuge. 

From this shade of unbelief others swung to ridi- 
cule and abuse, a few to vituperation. These were 
the natural expressions of men who had been opposed 
to him all along and now .seized on the opportunity 
to harass him. However, they were not strong enough 
numerically to dash Waller's spirits. 

"We've caught them right, .so far," he thought. 
" Now, can we stay on top for a week? " 

A few minutes after the agitator's interview with 
the correspondents at eleven — which brought out 
nothing new — Cholliewollie walked into the inner 
office. His face was solemn. 

"Here," he said, handing Smith a telegram, "is 
the first message regarding one of the delegations 
to the parade." 

It was dated Seattle, Washington, and wan di- 
rected to the agitator. 

Smith read it aloud : 

"Seven hundred leaving this state this afternoon for 
Washington. Seattle delegation escorted to train by 


bands and thousands of men and women. We are solid 
for you out here." 

Waller grinned. 

"That shows you," he rejoiced, "that there will be 
no deserters." 

The afternoon wore on. Smith at his desk— con- 
ferring, arranging, directing, assuring himself by tele- 
phone and telegraph that the special trains and 
railroad fares were being provided a.s previously 
stipulated with the railroad companies, the banks, 
and the county and city managers of the movement— 
and Waller shouting frantically over the telephone or 
devouring with his eyes the incessant flood of yellow 
paper on which were printed the messages of good 
cheer from almost everywhere. 

At the six o'clock meeting with the newspaper 
men several showed telegrams from their papers say- 
ing that the proofs of the marriage in Shanghai had 
not yet materialized. 

When the usual routine of questions and answers 
ended, Avery moved a step nearer to the agitator. 
Snappily dressed, alert as ever, and speaking in frank, 
terse sentences, he made an impressive figure. 

"Mr. Smith," he .said, "we want to tell you we are 
with you. We've seen your work. We know you. 
We know what sort of a man you are. And, from 
now on, you'll get all the help possible from us. We 
wanted you to know that." 


Smith bowed to Avery and swept the semicircle 
of faces with a glance that seemed to single out each 
man and thank 1 im. 

"Gentlemen," he said, in a low tone, "I cannot 
find words to bear the burden of my debt to you. 
It is you who can win this fight. I thank you all. 
It is wonderful." 

He turned quickly and wc- 1 into his private oflSce. 

Waller, arriving at his jv n office a few minutes 
past seven, was told by the i lanaging editor: 

"A crowd's gathering in front of the agitator's 
office. They've got a band. They want to show 
their confidence in him." 

"Yes," he replied, "I knew about that." 

"I'll get somebody else to cover that," the other 
went on. "What I want from you to-night is a 
blanket story covering all the other events of this 
kind throughout the country. We've got bulletins 
from nearly every city, saying there will be mass meet- 
ings to-night as expressions of confidence in Smith. 
It ought to make a big story." 

"It'll be a crackerjack," ChoUiewollie assented. 

All that evening Waller, gathering nii.terial for his 
story, read the dispatches that came in from the 
press associations and the paper's correspondents. 
From every city came tiie news that John Smith's 
name had lit tlie fires of enthusiasm. The office boy 
went in and out. piling up the details of the story. 


It seemed to Waller that the spirit of the agitator 
rushed from city to city through that marvellous 
winter night. With his actual physical eye he could 
see the swaying of the singing, cheering crowd as it 
swept down Market Street in San Francisco. He 
could hear the singing, catch the gleam of the ban- 
ners under the electric lights, feel the glow of the 
people's ardour. 

The clicking wires changed the scenes of the drama 
continuously. It claimed no one city, no one sec- 
tion, for its setting. Viashington Street in Indian- 
apolis, Second Avenue in Seattle, and the East Side 
in New York were merely flashing parts of the wave 
of feeling that called men to the streets and made 
them lift their voices to the stars. Fifth Street in 
Cincinnati, Milk Street in Boston, Michigan Avenue 
in Chicago, the public squares of smaller cities — all 
were places where devoted men and women, ignor- 
ing the jeers and, at times, the missiles of the other 
side, congregated to show their scorn of those who 
fought against the cause and its leader. 

And the man whose glowing spirit and unflagging 
zeal had kindled an enthusiasm which swept from 
coast to stood at his office window, bowing his 
thanks while a ]Member of Congress delivered an 
address from the pavement below, and a band played, 
and a crowd that flowed far over into the Capitol 
grounds cheered and sang. 


The managing editor had been right: It was a 
big story. 

And the one-time bored and blase Mr. Waller, 
having crammed all the details of it into his brain, 
sat down at his typewriter to make it a "cracker- 


That same evening Miss Mallon called at Dr 
Vetter s house. In response to her ring he admitted 
ner nimself. 

"I do so need your advice, your help," she ex- 
plamed with a little smile. "That is why you must 
forgive my coming." 

"Dear child," he answered. "I am glad you came 
— ^glad. 

He led the way into his office, 

"He did well-very well," he commented, giving 
her a chair and taking his accustomed place at his 
desk. "He was very wise." 

..'.'^°" "'^»" *° ^^" ^^^ *''"th a'x'ut his-his con- 

'•Yes. It will raise up new friends for him." 
"The dear friends," she said gratefully. "He haa 
so many." 

Vetter saw that she was unstrung. 
"Tell me," he invited, "how can I help?" 
Simply and directly she described her meeting 
with Smith in Waller's apartment, her wish to give 
bim what encouragement she might, and his fanciful 



(ANSr ond (SO TEST CHART He. 2} 


S^ ^653 East Main Streel 

r'.S Rochester. New York 14609 USA 

'J^ (716) 482 - 0300 - Phone 

^S (716) 288 - 5989 - Fo. 




■■■•■ !■ 

I' I- 

V li 

story illustrating the value of serving others. She 
repeated the story with great fidelity as to its main 
points, and gave many of his sentences word for 

"Ah-h," he said slowly, "he has a wonderful im- 
agination. And yet, whot is imagination? Merely 
the power to adorn the things one remembers." 

She drew in her breath sharply. 

"That is just it," she said. "I thought the story 
might give you something to work on— something 
from which we might deduce — things." 

He began to play with the paper-knife deftly, 
swiftly, moving it in his fingers until it sparkled, a 
circle of light. 

"I see," he half-mused. "The Leslie woman puts 
him in Shanghai. And there was in his story the 
passage about the tear jars of China." 

"And," she supplemented anxiously, "the part 
about letting the woman go from him at the foun- 
tain. He said it was a mistake." 

She was shaken, afraid for him. 

Vetter let the paper-knife fall and spread both his 
hands, palms down, on the blotter before him, while 
he regarded her steadily. 

"Do you think," he asked, "he ever treated a 
woman so?" 

Her glance, for all its sadness, was as steady as 


"I know he never could have, in his proper senses," 
she declared, all resolute. "But his condition at that 
time, the opium, the whisky, might have made him 

"Then you think there is something to the woman's 

"I thought there might be. I see that it is pos- 

"And yet," he said, admiration and sympathy 
mingled in his voice, "dear child, you love him?" 

"Yes," she assented. 

"His is a marvellous personality," he observed, 
his words slow, his eyes downcast while he played 
with the knife. "We who try to cure men's minds 
are like explorers walking through great caverns and 
admiring by the light of flickering torches the won- 
ders they hold. No person ever fully knows another 
person's soul— the possibilities of the soul are so un- 
limited. But I went into his with my flickering 
torch, and I saw beautiful things. He told me all 
his thoughts, all his ideals. His soul, my child, is a 
beautiful soul." 

She waited, silent, fearful, grateful. She caught 
his intention to comfort her. He looked at her and 

"Tear jars," he said, "are known to many who have 
never been to China. And men leave women— in all 
countries. No special land has a monopoly on that." 



"Then you don't believe one word of Mary Leslie's 
story?" she breathed. 

"Not a word about his ever having been married 
to her or having deserted her. I doubt that he ever 
was in China." 

"You, more than all other people, must know!" 
she said thankfully. 

"No," he qualified; "I do not know. It is merely 
my opinion, such as that is." 
She rose. 

"It is very comforting," she thanked him. "I 
felt that I must talk to you." She took a deep 
breath and squared her shoulders. "I felt that I 
must be doing something!" 

"Patience," he smiled gently, "is the greatest of 
human achievements — at times." 
He asked her to stay longer. 
"No," she said, "I have one other visit to make." 
He escorted her to her runabout, where her maid 
awaited her. Despite his ungainly bulk, he seemed 
always the impersonation of tenderness, sympathy, 
even a certain gracefulness. It occurred to her as 
she thanked him that he must love all the world, 
that there must be in his heart always nothing but 
loving kindness. 

"Do not fear," he told her in farewell. "He will 
win. As for the other, the remembering, hope— hope 
always. Perhaps he was right. It may be that, 



out of this great service he is doing mankind, there 
v,-ill come to him his recompense, the rending of the 
curtain of darkness of which he spoke." 

She paused, her foot on the step, his hand on her 

" Could it be possible? " she asked eagerly. 

"It is possible," he answered. "Somebody may 
tell him the truth, may strike the agic note, may 
speak the one word that will flood his mind with 
light. It has happened before." 

She drove to the boarding-house in Fifth Street 
where Mary Leslie was stopping. 

Telling her maid to accompany her, she went up 
the short flight of steps to the front door and rang the 
bell. Her ring was answered by a tall, thin, unpre- 
possessing looking woman whose patience evidently 
had been tried soroly by the procession of reporters 
and photographers during the day. Even that dingy 
house had been swung into the white light of publicity. 

Edith stepped into the narrow hall. 

"I came to see Miss Leslie," she announced, add- 
ing, when she saw the woman's doubtful expression: 
"She expects me. Which is her room? " 

"If she expects you, it's all right," the landlady 
said querulously. "It's the second floor front." 

Edith, followed by the maid, went upstairs with 
quick, firm step and knocked on the door of the 
second floor front. 



"Come in," a woman's voice called. 

Edith, telling the maid to go back to the machine, 
opened the door and stepped into the room. Mary 
Leslie, sitting under a wall gas-jet near the bureau 
in the far corner, was trimming a hat. When she 
recognized her visitor.'slie gave no sign except that her 
hands became dead still on the hat in her lap. The 
paleness of her face was uncanny in the gaslight. 

Edith closed liie door. 

"Don't you remember me, Miss Leslie.' " she asked 

"Yes," replied the other woman, chill resentment 
in her tone. 

Edith, disregarding the hostility, went nearer to 
her. They eyed each other a moment. 

"I was hoping," Edith said, "that we might have 
a friendly talk together." 

"About.' " Mary's eyes forbade her. 

"About Mr. Smith." 

"What Mr. Smith?" The wise-looking eyes were 

Edith, who had not been invited to take the other 
chair in the cheerless room, was resolved to keep her 

"The Mr. Smith you saw in my house — you called 
him Jack Gardner." 

Mary lifted the hat from her lap carefully and 
placed it on the corner of the bureau. 


"That's his name— Jack Gardner," she said. 
Her voice was cold, dull, colourless. She seemed 
bereft of energy, dead to emotion. 
Edith took the other chair. 
"Won't you tell me about him.' " 

"What?" The monosyl'able was heavy with nega- 

"Let me explain what I thought." Edith spoke 
m a warm, personal tone, as if she would drive the 
other to friendliness. "I thought you and I, two 
women, might help him. He is engaged in a great 
work just now. He is about to carry to success a 
wonderful undertaking. You-surely you wish only 
to be a help to him. I, too, would like to help him." 

There was something of evil in the other woman'^ 

"I don't want to help him," she said flatly. 
"But you say you're his wife? " 
"I am his wife!" 

"And yet you want to see him ruined? " 
"He ruined my life- left me to go to the dogs. 

They eyed each other again. The good humour, 
the invitation to confidence, was still in Edith's eyes.' 
"I'm afraid you distrust me." she said. 
"No." the other denied. "Why should I distrust 

"That is kind. It is fair. When you came to my 




house for help I would have given it to you. Now, 
I have come to you. I thought that, since you are 
his wife, you might try to think back to the time in 
Shanghai and see, in your own mind, whether there 
hadn't been some good in him, some kindness, enough 
to excuse what— what you say he did." 

She was talking very rapidly in her effort to com- 
mand the other's attention. 

"In such things, you know, there is always some 
fault on both sides. Neither the husband nor the 
wife can be wholly to blame. Surely there was some 
extenuating -ircumstance, .something to keep you 
from being so very bitternow, something to make you 
think before you condemn him wholesale before the 

Mary Leslie looked at her in astonishment, and 
then laughed incredulously. 

"Look here! " she said. " What do you want me 
to do? 

"I want you to tell the truth, the whole truth, 
about all your relations with him " 

"Because I am sure that, if you told it all, it could 
not discredit him-could do nothing but help him 
Think, Mis.. Leslie! He can't even remember hav- 
ing known you — ever!" 

Mary took the hat from the bureau and placed it 
on her lap again. 


"You don't expect me to fall for that bunk, do 
you?" she asked insolently. 

She made a show of resuming work on the hat. 
her head, bent over, put her face in shadow and 
somehow made it, with the sneer on her lips, hideous. 
Suddenly she became repulsive to Edith, an im- 
possible creature. For a moment neither of them 
spoke. Wiile the country rang witli its enthusiasm 
for the agitator and while the streets of the cities 
were alight with the glow of torches carried by many 
marchers shouting his name, the two women who 
touched his life most nearly sat in a tawdry room, 
each utterly uncomprehending of the other. 

Edith stood up. Mary did not look at her. 

"Then you won't talk with me?" Edith put a last 

"There's nothing to talk about," the other said 

The distance to the doorway, .short as it was, was 
not long enough. Before she could put her hand on 
the knob, Edith, outraged and bitterly disappointed, 
lost her temper, gave way to her righteous indigna- 

"You will regret it," ,slie said, in a fierce, low tcne. 
"You! Who are you to arrogate to yourself the 
right to injure him? The time will come when you 
will weep — when your heart will break, if you have 
a heart — for what you have done, or tried to do. 


But listen to me! You will not succet-i. I don't 
know whether you have been bribed to till a lie. I 
don't care whether you are telling a half-truth ! "ut 
you cannot profane the nobility , f his character, 
cannot put a degrading touch upon him. There is 
a God, and there is retribution ! And you have com- 
mitted the supreme sin: You have refused to aid 
.'I fellow -being in distress!" 

She opened the door and stepped into the hall. 
Mary Leslie, who had not met her eyes while she 
talked, did not look up as she went out. 

The black-clad figure, the pallid face, the hands 
b.'sy with the hat, the eyes full of the wrong kind of 
wisdom, remained, a lively menace to the agitator's 

Fi!ly thirty minutes after Edith's ieparture the 
black-clad figure stood erect, the wi.e eyes looked 
at the reflection of the pale face in the bureau mirror, 
and the hard voice confided to nobody in particular!- 

"Humph ! Everybody's nutty about him." 


Proof of the marriage of John Gardner and Mary 
Leslie in Shanghai could not be found. Chollie- 
wollic, obsessed with the idea that the man Simpson 
was connected with the whole scheme to discredit 
the Egitator, devoted the spa-e time of himself and 
his friends among the Washington detectives to a 
search for some clue to his whereabouts, but made 
no progress. Ma^y L. lie, keeping to her room in 
the boarding-house, repeated her story to correspond- 
ents with monotonous regularity and wi'h unfailing 
fidelity to its details as she first had giv^.n it out. 
Edith Mallon, schoolin,? herself to paticni c. uot fr. ii 
the newspapers day by day the story of iiow ^ 
country, undismayed by the charges again.,t Snuih, 
rallied to his support. Mannersley, newly returne.) j 
Washington, was not received at the :Mallon h. 
The week wore away, the agitator in a te 
drive of labour, his assistants and lieutiiiuL 
at their desks until the -arly morning hours, th. 
plans for the demonstration working smoothly. Ii. 
the afternoon of the 8th of December the specf .i 
trains began to come into the city. From then until 



the morning of llie lOtli tlio imiltitiidt grow. The 
Union Station, l.uil* to a(<'oninio<lutc inauguration 
crowd.s. was ovi-rlaxed at linios, and people conn"ng 
from tlie South were (hsembarked at Seventh Street 
near the ri\-er. wlule .some, coming from Uie Nortli 
and \V^,t, detrained at Eckington, a suburl). 

No sucli throng of civilians ever liad invaded the 
Capital. Bigger crowds had been present at in- 
augurations of Presidents, but on those occasions 
tiie number had been swelled by the militar- It 
was calculated by the Chamber of Commerce the 
night of the 9lh that forty-nine thousand visitors 
had arrived. The city was a mass of while ribbons, 
white bunting, and white banners. The streets were 
thronged with the laughing, good-natured crowds. 
Here a band played, there a group sang a marching 
song or a hymn. The women and chik'-en together 
slightly outnumbered the men. Everywhere was 
the conviction that the victory already had been 

Smith, having taken counsel of Waller and several 
others, including Bishop Re.xall, had stuck to his 
original intention of heading the Pennsylvania 
Avenue line of march, which formed at the avenue 
and Eighteentn Street and the surrounding side 
streets. Indeed, Waller pointed out to him, he could 
not refuse to take such part in the day's work. It 
was demanded of him by everybody. 

TIIK MAN WHO F()R(.()r ..■;., 

The loth dawned, a clear day, r -(h a slow l.roizc 
from the south that hecanu- ,a(mv t;nd,T tlic 
bright sun. By nine oVIork the l>ulk of (!..• peoph; 
had taken their appointed stations— near the avenue 
and Eighteentli Street Xort Invest, near M and Xorth 
Capitol streets, at Franklin Park and in the streets 
back of the Uow.,' ,, Representatives Office ;,uild- 
ing. Smith ha.l r;. ■■■ J out his plan: that people 
from all the stales of the Tnion should approach the 
Capitol from the four points of the coniiiass. 

At a few minutes past ten o'clock a double line of 
mounted police, fourteen abreast, wheeled out of 
Fifteenth Street, their backs to the Treasurv and 
the White House, their faces to the Capitol. The 
avenue, clear of all traffic, with the peoi.le kept to 
the sidewalks by the ropes and the militiamen, 
stretched before them like a long corridor. 

T; were followed by the agitator, who was on 
horst^ack, thirty yards behind them. He wore a 
frock-coat and was hatless. His riding was superb. 
His horse, a sorrel, one of the prize mounts of the 
army, picked his slow way over the asphalt with 
steps light and delicate enough for a dancing master, 
swerving to this side or that and dancing backward 
and forward when he was held in to keep the proper 
distance from the police. Smith's seat was such 
that he seemed a part of the horse. Erect, proud, 
his dominant emotion one of immense gratitude to 




those who cheered him, he rode with uplifted head, 
his brow bare to the sunlight. 

He made a fascinating figure to those who watched 
him. In the people's imagination he was different 
from all other men. Mystery was upon him. The 
tragedy of his story secured their pity. The glamour 
of this day's achievement forced their admiration 
The romance of the realization of his ambition caught 
their fancy. 

As he passed, the crowds on the sidewalks became 
stormmg, roaring, frantic lines of white. Ribbons 
and handkerchiefs filled the air. It was as if, at 
his coming, the sea of humanity on each side rose 
toward him like the white crest of a wave. As far 
as he could see the avenue was fringed to right and 
left with the rising and falling solid lines of white. 
The tumult of the applause was like the roar of the 
sea. To his ears the roar of the men's voices domi- 
nated, and now and then the shrill bravos of the 
women cut through the heavier tone. 

They cheered him because he had done a great 
thing. He had called the country to Washington 
and It had come. They felt thi.. -felt, even, that 
he had called each one of them personally, and that, 
while their great motive had been their hate of 
whisky, his voice had been the one to unite them. 
They had secured their places to look at him, and 
would fall in line as the procession passed them. 


Every few yards he bowed to right and to left 
his clean-cut, wiry figure bending gracefully from 
the waist. Now and then, passing a high building 
whose windows swarmed with humanity, he waved 
his gauntleted hand. He was smiling, and, some- 
how, so vibrant was his spirit, so intense his emotion, 
that the men and women who lined the pavements 
persuaded themselves that he smiled at each of 
them in turn. There was about him nothing of 
the theatric. He rode down that long lane of thun- 
dering applause, a strong man, a brilliant person- 
ality, doing simply and well the thing he had planned 
to do, carrying to fruition the great dream that had 
been his-the dream at which many had sneered at 
first, the dream which millions now loved. 

Twenty yards behind him were the two bishops 
m a carriage, and behind them five hundred little 
girls in white. After that came the apparentiv 
endless line of marching men and women-the 
singing clubs, delegations from various states, com- 
panies of men, troops of women. And, when the 
end of the line came, all those who had stood on the 
sidewalks fell in. 

He led them to the right of the Peace Monument 
and up the roadway on the right-hand side of the 
Capitol, halting on the east plaza. So nicely had the 
thing been planned that the marchers from North 
Capitol Street flowed into the grounds on the west 




front as soon as the agitator's division had occupied 
the east plaza and the surrounding territory. Those 
from the east joined the agitator, and those from 
the south went to the west of the grounds. 

On the east side a great band played hymns, and 
the people sang. On the west side a singing club 
sang "My Country. 'Tis of Thee." Back farther, 
on the edges of the crowd, other bands played. 

The agitator dismounted on the plaza, and, going 
back to the carriage, escorted the two bishops to the 
top of the east steps on the House end of the build- 
ing. There, at the front of the stand, among Sena- 
tors, Representatives, and men and women who had 
spent years, some of them a lifetime, in the fight for 
prohibition, the venerable Bishop Rexall took his 
seat. Smith, leaving him, went with Bishop Fraydon 
through the building to the west front. 
There were to be no speeches. 
"On that day," Smith had said weeks before, "we 
will pray to God and command Congress." 

There was no program, save that the bishops were 
to offer prayer, and the people were to sing and to 
stand there, a commanding army enveloping the 
home of the government, until they saw the sign that 
what they asked had been granted. The sign was 
to be the running of a huge white ribbon to the 
top of the flagpost over the House end of the build- 


In the line that followed Smith a fat man had 
ridden alone in a carriage. It was Vetter. 

He was far enough to the front to catch the thun- 
der of applause that greeted Smith and to watch the 
glow the leader's passing had left in the faces of the 
thousands on the sidewalks. There was upon his 
face, also, a glow. 

"How they love him!" he thought. "It is worth 
living to have seen this." 

He, like the others, loved him. That was, he re- 
flected, the secret of the agitator's great gift of leader- 
ship. The man's spirit had reached out and charmed 
a nation. 




John Smith paced to and fro in Crawdlor's com- 
mittee rooms. After escorting Bishop Fraydon to 
the west of th= Capitol, he had gone back into 
the buildmg, and, taking an elevator, had reached 
the subway that leads from the Capitol proper to 
the buildmg occupied by the offices and committee 
rooms of most of the Representatives. Waller, who 
had been close to him ever since he had arrived at 
the east plaza, had protested. 

"No." the agitator had answered, "this is the 
proper thing to do. This is a demonstration of the 
strength of the prohibition sentiment in this coun- 
try. There are friends of mine in the crowd. In 
their excitement some of them might be tempted 
to try to make it a personal triumph of mine. That 
would not do You know it wouldn't." 

For that reason he had effaced himself from the 

yhe room in which he awaited the result of Crn 1- 
lors motion to have the House pass the national 
prohibition measure faced the inner court of the big 
buUdmg from the first floor on the south side. He 



had opened one of the big windows and, even at that 
distance, with the other side of the huge structure 
towering between him and the vast throng, he could 
hear faintly the bands and the singing. There was 
upon his face a shadow of the smile he had worn 
while riding down the avenue. He felt nothing but 
supreme confidence in the outcome. The weariness 
he had known for the past few days had fallen from 
him. He was at his best, brave, brilliant, tuned to 
the top of all his wonderful energy. 

Suddenly the singing and the music of the bands 
stopped as if the great volume of noise had been cut 
off by the stroke of a knife. He knew what that 
meant, the dead silence. Crawdlor had risen at his 
place in the House and put the motion, and, at a 
signal, the two bishops, holding their hands aloft, had 
begun their prayers for its passage. 

He stood by the window, silence all about him save 
for the plashing of the big fountain in the cen*re of 
the courtyard. He knew, as well as if he had seen 
it, the tremendous effectiveness of those prayers — 
the bared heads of the thousands of men, the bowed 
heads of the thousands * women, tne quiet of the 
The singing began afresh. 

He stood and watched the fountain, a tall column 
of water moved slowly by the breeze until it looked 
like a big, new flower hanging in the air. He thought 



of the figure of a woman swaying in a doorway like 
a reed moved by the flow of cold and heavy waters. 
Where was she at that moment? How had it gone her? He wondered if there was in her heart 
one half the fierce hunger for love that he felt He 
had not seen her since that day in her home when the 
Leslie woman had told her story. But he knew that 

t^r'uV^" '"''"' ^""^^'^"^ ^° ^'-'^ J"™ that evening. 
Waller had brought him that message from her 

And yet. there was the immutable fact: he could 
not clar r. her. had no right to permit her to come to 
h.m men could he throw off the chains that bound 
h>m? Would he ever know his own past? His 
thoughts went to Vetter. Yes; he would go back to 
Vetter at once and take up again the wear- heart- 
breaking work of trying to Snd something, some light 
however faint, to pierce the darkness behind him.' 
If only Vetter could! 

He threw back his shoulders with a swift move- 
ment and looked up to the blue sky and laughed 

'Vetter can!" he said to himself. "Vetter must! 
Vetter will! It will come right! It must!" 

The corridor door was flung open, and Waller 
rushed m Enthusiasm at last had him by the throat 
He even had forgotten his cane. 

"Old man." he shouted, "it's marvellous, im- 
mense! I never saw anything like it. You've got 
em— got 'em sure!" 



" Give me the news," Smith demanded swiftly. 

"They've just started to call the roll." 

"How was Crawdlor? Was he very effective?" 

"You bet he was! He stood up, tall, powerful 
looking, pale with excitement. 

" ' Mr. Speaker,' he said, 'I rise to offer a privileged 

" 'The gentleman will state it,' said the Speaker. 

"'Mr. Speaker,' Crawdlor came back amid a still- 
ness throughout the House that was spooky, 'I move 
that the Committee on Amendments to the Consti- 
tution be discharged from f iirther consideration of the 
resolution providing for u amendment to the Fed- 
eral Constitution for nation-wide prohibition in the 
United States, and that the House, without further 
delay, proceed to vote on my motion to pass the reso- 

"He said that in a way which foretold victory. 
He said it in such a way that everybody went raving, 
stark mad. In th" galleries and on the floor you 
could hear the K jel yell, the Yankee yell, and 
every other kind ot a yell. Members and spectators 
had hysteria. Men were pounding each other on 
the back. You couldn't hear the Speaker's gavel. 
Some of the women in the galleries were screaming. 
Men stood up and shrieked without knowing that 
they were shrieking. It took twenty minutes to 
quiet the Members and the galleries. The thing 



showed, once and for all. whether people hate 

Smith drew a deep breath. 

"It must have been very fine," he said, something 
like reverence in his voice. 

"And all those thousands and thousands of people 
on the outside!" Waller's dramatic description 
rushed on. "You couldn't see them, and you couldn't 
hear much more than a whisper from them, there in 
the chamber of the House. But their spirit was 
there. And it was a mighty thing. It was as if they 
reached out and to ched Congress with their hands 
You were right when you said they would pray to 
Ood and command Congress. That's what they 
did. That's what they're doing uow-making the 
House of Representatives idopt that Crawdlor 

"How long will t take to call the roll, to get the 
complete vote.'" 

"About forty or fifty minutes. But it's a fore- 
gone conclusion. We've won. We've won, I tell 

Waller slapped him on the back. 

"I know we have. I knew we would," Smith said 

"Yes," Waller agreed. "That's what got me the 
first time I talked to you. You knew this thing 
would win. By George, you're a wonder!" 



Smith looked at him a moment a Httle wistfully. 

"Am I?" he asked. 

Waller knew he referred to the Leslie woman's 
story, which, although it had not hurt him in the 
fight for prohibition, remained as an obstruction 
which he could not put out of the path of his hap- 
piness without regaining his memory. 

"You'll beat that, too!" the writer assured him. 
"Why, jou can beat anything!" His tone changed. 
"I wish I could find that blushing rose, that uncal- 
loused conscience, that pci 'ect man, the Simpson in- 
dividual. He knows about you." 

Smith, ignoring that suggestion, asked : 

"Have you seen Miss Mallon to-day.'" 

"Yes," Waller replied a little reluctantly. 

Smith noticed the hesitation. 

"What is it? " he inquired quickly. 

"Well, to tell you the trath, I think she's hiding 
around somewhere, waiting to be the first to con- 
gratulate you when the vote is announced. 

" In this building? " 

"I believe so." 

"What room? 

Waller laughed. 

"Say, now," he protested; "don't pump me any 
more. I refuse to disclose a woman's plans. Be- 
sides, what's the use? She's so apt to change them, 
you know." 



The corridor door opened again, this time to admit 
Senator Mallon. 

"May I come in?" he asked, hesitating. 

"Certainly," the agitator invited him 

Waller turned to Smith. 

"I'm going back to the press gallery. I'll come 
back with the figures on the vote." 

He rushed out, leaving the ,Ioor open. Smith 
could hear h.s footfalls fardown : ae corridor as he ran. 

i he Senator came farther in o the room 

J^'J^l''^' ^'^'^ "^'"""O"." he said, speaking 
with diflScuIty. even diflSdence. 

co^%°'^ ^° ^°" ''"' ^"''*°'^" Smith answered him 

"I have come," Mallon went on, "to thank you, 
ifyou will permit me." 
"To thank me.' For what? " 
"For your unusual generosity." The Senator was 
beginning to strike his ordinary, suave conversa- 
tional pace. "For the past week Washington has 
been crazy, absolutely crazy, about this whisky busi- 
ness. Several men have had their careers cut short 
by being Identified with the whisky interests I-I 
liave to thank you for my escape." 
"No " Smith corrected him, his voice still cool. 
1 ou have your daughter to thank." 
"At any rate, I felt that I must come to express 
my gratitude-to you." ^ 



"Was it gratitude. Senator," the agitator asked, 
his tone tinged by contempt, "or was it fear? " 

He made a swift, deprecatory bow, and added: "I 
should net have said that to Miss Mallon's father." 

The Senator bowed. 

"Pohtics is politics," he said smoothly. "The 
great trouble about whisky is that there isn't any- 
tlung you can say in favour of it in a stump speech. ' 

"Yes, that's true." 

"And I've got political sense enough to know that 
no man who wants to stay in politics can vote against 
your prohibition people any longer." 

"You mean," Smith asked in surprise, "thai, 
you've come over to us.' " 

"I mean I've been driven over to yon." the older 
man explained. "Every big thing has two kind' of 
men on its side— those who vote from conviction 
and those who vote from fear. You were right just 
now. Mine is one of the 'fear votes'." 

"But the country will know the difference." 
"The country's too busy to bother much about 
motives," Mallon gave it as his opinion. "What 
the country wants is results." 
"I wouldn't be too sure about it in a thing of this 

kind, because " 

"Oh, well," the Senator interrupted, "that will 
have to take care of itself. After the Senate Joes 
what the House is doing now, and the resolution 


ha, passed both bodies, it will have to be ratified 
by the legislatures of thirty-six states. When the 
fight IS made in my stat<^if there is any fight- 
you 11 find me with you. That's all there is to that " 
He hesitated a moment. "There's .something else 
1 wanted to speak to you about." 
"What is it?" 

"Confound it all!" he exploded. "I wish you'd 
tell me who you are. I wish to thunder I knew what 
It IS you've done." 
Smith gave him a long, sharp look. 
••Senator." he said earnestly, "I don't know." 
I wish you did. I wish you'd talk. You see- 
my daughter " 

'• Your daugh»"r is still my friend, Senator," Smith 
cuUn quickly. "Please don't attempt to tell me .he 

Mallon expl-Hed again. 

''Your f. . . !! I should say sh« is. If she ever 
finds out wn you are and untangles this Leslie 
woman s story '.e'll marry you so quick it will make 
your head swim!" He stepped closer to Smith. 
i>he 8 in the next room," he confided. "She asked 
me to come with her. I thought-I hoped I could 
fix this up. But I can't. You won't talk » 

Senator," the agitator demanded, "why will vou 
persist m disbelieving me? I tell you alcohol can 
destroy anything i„ a man. It Las destroyed my 



memory. I tell you I don't know who I am. I can- 
not remember what I was." 

Mallon looked disappointed. 

"Then," he said, "that's all. It's ended. My 
daughter can't marry a man who already may have 
been married. That's a dead sure thing." 

He put his hand on the knob of the door on the 
right, leading into Crawdlor's larger office. 

"No, it isn't ended," Smith said with great deter- 
mination, and followed Mallon. "I must speak to 
Miss Mallon!" 

While the Senator hesitated, there was the sound 
of light, flying footsteps racing down the marble 
corridor, followed by the appearance of Elise Downey 
in the doorway. 

"Oh, Mr. Smith," she cried out breathlessly, 
"I've seen the Simpson man! I met Mr. Waller 
ou* front, and he told me to tell — — " 

"Excuse me for just a few minutes, I beg," Smith 
inteirupted, not remembering for the moment that 
he had seen her in the Mannersley offices. He turned 
back to Mallon. "Senator, permit me to accom- 
pany you." 

Mallon, realizing the uselessness of delaying the 
encounter, swung open the door and motioned him 
to go before. The door shi behind the two men, 
leaving Elise poised in the other doorway, her mo- 
mentous news unspoken. 


Elise had been in the room hardly more than five 
minutes when, above the roar of the crowd at the 
Capitol, she heard the noise of shuffling feet in the 
corridor outside. There was in the sound of the 
footsteps something peculiar, as if an afflicted man 
dragged his feet or staggered heavily under some 
burden. She ran to the door and looked down the 

What she saw moved her to instant sympathy 

"Bring her here-in here!" she said urgently to 
the person outside, and threw the door wide open. 

The shuffling feet came nearer. 

"Poor thing!" Miss Downey commented, await- 
ing the approach. "Ah. be gentle with her, can't 

The man Simpson appeared in the doorway He 
practically carried Mary Leslie. He had been drink- 
ing heavily, and. as he stepped into the room, his 
grasp relaxed. His burden would have slipped to 
the floor but for the assistance of Elise. who sprang 
forward to help. 

The Leslie woman barely could summon the 



strength to put one foot before the other. She could 
not support her own weight. The whiteness of her 
face was ghastly. There was in it no trace of colour 
except that of her carmined lips and the shadow of 
the blue lids over her closed eyes. Her arms hung 
limply at her sides, and now and then a dry sob 
shook her pitifully. She wore a light-blue coat-suit, 
the skirt of which was edged with fur, and the plume 
in her light-blue hat was absurdly large. It was as 
if she had tried to redeem herself with clothes. As 
Elise caught her, she groaned. 

Staggering and half-falling between Elise and 
Simpson, she got as far as the big table against the 
left wall of the office and sank into a chair, letting 
her head fall weakly on her limp arms on the table. 

Simpson stepped back from her and looked at her 

Elise turned upon him. 

"Did she get hurt in the crowd?" 

"Naw," he answered, his tone thick and surly; 
"she ain't hurt. She's just acting like a crazy woman. 
I was trying to find some place to put her. I got her 
into the building all right." 

Elise bent over the thin figure. 

"She ain't got good sense," Simpson said con- 

He disgusted Elise. 

"You horrid manl" she reproved him sharply. 



The frail figure, around which she still had her 
arm. was shaken by a great tremor. To Elise, it 
felt as if some outside power had seized the woman 
and tugged at every fibre of her physical make-up. 

Mary lifted her head .slowly and stared straight 
ahead of her. Elise, bending forward, saw the wit- 
ness in her eyes, noted her terror-stricken look, and 
caught the trembling of the painted lips. She stared 
in that dead, unknowing way for a long time while 
the dry sobs shook her. Then, raising her clenched 
hand a little way, she struck one blow on the 

"Oh-h-h!" The moan was slow, heavy, as it the 
power, which had caught hold of her from the out- 
side, had dragged it out of her. 

The music of a band sounded louder than before. 
It roused her. 

"There it is again!" she said in a tense, hushed 
manner, her wild eyes still fixed. "It's rolling over 
the top of this building like water!" She sobbed 
agam. "Ifs wonderful. It's awful— terrible!" 

She turned her head slowly and looked up to Elise 
as if only half-comprehending her presence. Sin 
son, surly and stupid, was silent. 

"The crowd! The crowd-bigger than the ocean 
— stronger than a storm!" 

Tears came into her eyes, and she groaned. 

"And I am a bad woman! Oh, I'm a bad woman!" 



She wept convulsively and beat on the table in 
impotent gesture with her thin, gloved hands. 

"Ah, don't cry," Elise tried to comfort her, re- 
moving the blue-plumed hat. "Just rest." 

"Say, Mary," Simpson protested roughly, "what's 
the use of all this foolishness?" 

The Leslie woman did not notice him. She 
started from her chair and dropped back into it 
again, spreading out her hand's on the table. 

"The crowd!" she marvelled. "I never saw a 
real crowd before. Oh, my God! Why didn't I 
see a crowd like that when I was a girl, a little bit of 
a girl.' They were everywhere. They came from 
everywhere! The streets filled with marching feet, 
with flying feet!" 

She spread her arms wide, expressing the futility 
of her attempt to describe all she had seen. 

"They came from everywhere," she repeated, her 
tone one of still, groping wonder, "from all the world, 
down every street, down all the avenues! There 
were oceans of people— men young and old; girls, 
laughing children— oh, the laughing children !— and 
women with babies in their arms, and white-haired 
women. I talked to one white-haired woman. She 
told me whisky had destroyed her husband and her 
two boys. No wonder there was a light in her eyes! 
And the bands and the banners! The music! It 
was like a battle, a wonderful battle." 


K ' 



She stood suddenly erect, her head to one side 
hstening to the faint roar of the distant crowd 

There are enough people out there," she said 
st.ll standing, speaking straight ahead toward the 
window, 'to tear this building down stone by stone 
enough people to build a thousand buildings, enough 
w"S' V7r^'',"« "' t'- -rid-any thing in tL 
sTni /"""V^'^^' ^'"^'««' l^icl you hear then, 
sing;- A million voices, louder than big guns Thev 

2%:i7r''' ""'''''■' ""'' '^- -«■ '°^- 

She shuddered and sank back into the chair, her 
voice a httJ shrill. She addressed neither kli e 
nor Simpson The words, like the sobs, were being 
wrung from her, as if she were telling her woe to aj 
theworld^ She talked because she had to talk, and 
because she suffered. It frightened Elise into still- 

"I tell you. they sang 'Draw Me Nearer ' Thev 
sang that when I was converted, oh, so long ago- 
And after that a boy in a white robe standing on the 
east steps-the boy sang. The sunlight was on him 
and he was bareheaded, and he hud a voice like a 
woman. It was a beautiful voice. I think it must 
have reached right straight up to the throne of God 
Oh^God^ I know it did! He sang, 'Come Unto 
H m^ He sang. Come unto Him, all ye who mourn, 
for He can hear.' All ye who mourn! -^d all 


those people, those people from everywhere, sang 
it after him, sang it until the bands were *' ,b. It 
was an earthquake. It was awful! The .y's voice 
went right up to the Throne, and the people's voices 
went right up to the angels' ears. I know they did. 
It lifted me up." 

She put both her hands before her face for a mo- 
ment and moaned. 

"It lifted me up and broke me," she wailed through 
her trembling fingers, "broke me! It was terrible- 
it was hea"en— it was hell! Before I knew it, I was 
down on my knees, down on the cold, dirty as- 
phalt, gasping, 'Oh, God— oh, God— oh, God*— and I 
didn't know why I did it. I had to do it! I was 
afraid at first, and then I wasn't afraid. The awful 
force of that singing, those people, went through me 
like fire— burned me up— lifted me up— and broke 

She wept silently, the tears streaming through 
her gloved fingers. The crowd's singing swelled in 

"It broke me," she resumed in awe, her hands 
falling to the table, "because I was a bad woman. 
And I saw him, on his horse, there on the plaza— he 
always said he could ride, but I never believed him— 
I saw him on his horse, and up there on the stand 
with the Bishop, and everybody loved him and 
cheered him." 



She looked up to Elise. while terror triumphed in 
her eyes. 

"Oh," she moaned, "I hed about him— him— and 
he's all right." A sob checked her utterance. "He's 
fighting against liquor, and he's good— like all those 
people out there, like the boy who sang, like the 

Elise, for the first time, realized who the woman 
was— the Mary Leslie who had attacked the agita- 
tor. And Simpson was there, the man about whom 
Albert Mitchell had questioned her. She grasped 
Mary by the arm, and, in her excitement, shook her 

"Who'd you lie about?" she asked sharply. "Tell 
me! Whatman?" 

Simpson advanced toward the two women. 

"Aw, shut up, Mary!" he said threateninclv 
"What's the use of " 

Elise wheeled upon him furiously. 

"Shut your own mouth!" she said angrily, and to 
Mary: "Who was it?" The sound of the crowd's 
smging grew while she paused for the reply. "Who 
was it? Was it Mr. Smith?" 

Mary let her head fall on her arms. 

"Yes— Smith," she sobbed. 

"Come on, Mary," Simpson urged thicklv, "let's 
get out of here." 
Mary shook her head in slow refusal. 



Elise spranjj to tlie open doorway, banged the 
door shut, and stood with her back against it. Her 
blue, doll-like eyes defied Simpson. 

She turned toward the door on the right, the door 
through which the agitator had gone, and, still 
maintaining her position, began to call: 

" Mr. Smith ! Mr. Smith ! ' ' 

She waited a moment and shrieked: 

"Mr. Smith! Mr. Smith!" 

After what seemed an eternity to the girl, the door 
swung open, and the agitator, followed by ' lith, 
Mrs. Kane, and Senator Mallon, appeared on the 

Elise, fighting against the agitation that possessed 
her, pointed a trembling finger toward the sobbing 
woman at the table with her face hidden in her arms. 

"She knows! She'll tell!" Elise almost shrieked. 
"Make her tell!" 


Maby slowly raised her tear-stained face. Her 
attitude was a study in dreariness. 

Edith, with quick intuition, was the first to catch 
the full meaning of the scene. 

"It wasn't true!" she voiced the thought that 
flashed into her mind. 

She went swiftly to Mary and bent over her. 

"It wasn't true, was it— your story about Mi- 

There was in her voice an anguish of appeal. She 
put her hand on the other woman's shoulder. 

"Tell me," she said, a catch in her throat, "tell 
me it wasn't true." 

Mary's fingers writhed against each other on the 
table. She shook her head in slow denial. 

"And you know the truth!" Edith persisted 
"What is it.'" 

"She'll tell. Miss Mallon," Elise assured, coming 

The agitator stood in the centre of the room, his 
chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he took. 
He looked like a man fighting for air. 


'Who am I? " he asked the Leslii 



She lifted her glance to Edith's, and, indicating 
him with a weary gesture of her hands, said in a low- 

"I lied about him — but I knew liim — in Shanghai." 

The hand Edith had on her shoulder shook Uke a 
leaf before the wind. 

"What do you mean.' Tell me! What is 

"I knew him," Mary said dully, "but I wasn't his 
wife. He didn't run away from me." 

She paused and shook her head slowly from side to 
side. Bitterness twisted her lips. 

"There wasn't ever anything between him and me. 
Oh, great God, he was too good for me!" 

She ended that with a wail. 

Edith implored her: 

"Just what do you mean?" 

Mary, with the weariness that seemed to envelop 
her and be a part of her, waved her left arm toward 

"Ask him. He knows." 

She dropped her head on her arms and groaned. 

Smith turned toward Simpson. 

"Speak out!" he said imperiously. "Do you hear 
what she says? She says you know." He stepped 
closer to the man. "She says you know who • 



Simpson, stupefied by the whisky he had drunk 
and now terrified by the whole occurrence, admitted 

"Yes, I know." 
"Then, who am I?" 

"You're John Garland," the other answered. "I 
am John Gardner." 

"Garland?" Smith said wonderingly. He passed 
the back of his right hand across his brow. "Gar- 
land?" he repeated. 

Mrs. Kane was clutching the Senator's arm in a 
viselike grip, but she did not know it. Mallon did 
not know it. They, like the others, were caught and 
held by the Aolcanic suddenness of the thing. 
The agitator asked another question: 
"Where am I from?" 

The woman with her head on her arms on the 
table sobbed audibly. 

Smith commanded him again: 

"Well! Speak out! What else?" 

Simpson answered reluctantly, as if the other's 
voice and eyes could not be denied. 

" You told me you were born in a little place called 
Wolftown. It's in the Virginia mountains some- 
where, twenty miles from a railroad. You had some 
idea— when you were sixteen years old— some idea of 
being a preacher. And you had read a lot of stuff 



After that, you got to drinking and left 

about it. 

"And then?" Smith's tone showed his utter be- 
" You batted around and just went to the dogs." 
Mary lifted her head and shook off Edith's hand 
from her shoulder. She indicated Simpson. 

"He was drunk last night," she said in that dull, 
dreary tone which seemed now a part of her. "He's 
drunk now. Let me tell you." 

"Please, please, tell us," Edith said gently. 
"We were out in Shanghai. Gardner— the man 
you call Simpson— took me out there. It was a 
little over six years ago. He took me." 

She tried to toss her head in scorn, but succeeded 
only in a gesture that emphasized her misery. 

"Oh, they talk about drink! The only thing 
that really matters is what it does to women! You 
see what it's done to me! Anyway, he took me. 
And we met Jack Garland there. We didn't go to 
very nice places. That's how we met him." She 
indicated Smith again. A grtat sob choked her. 
"Oh, that awful country! There are ten thousand 
different kinds of flowers there — and ten million 
different kinds of sins." 
Edith brought her back to the story. 
"Oh, tell me! Tell me about Mr. Smith." 
"His name's Garland," she said, as if she made a 



clumsy effort to keep the record straight. "And one 
morning, down there in the opium joint. Charlie's 
place— the House with the Red-lacquered Balcony, 
on the Foochow Road— he climbed out of his horrid 
bunk, and he left us. But, before he left, he talked 
to us. He said anybody who wanted to go to ruin 
on opium could do it. but he was through with it. 
He said he would drink whisky. He said he knew 
what whisky would do to him, but nobody could tell 
what opium would do! And he begged us to come 
back to America. He said he was going to work and 
get enough money to come back. And he did— he 

Her voice broke shrilly. Somehow, they all knew 
that, when she had said that, she had put words on 
the great tragedy, the poignant grief, of all her life. 
"What's the use of putting on all this stuff.'" 

Simpson spoke uneasily. "All three of us were " 

" Be quiv:t ! " Smith silenced him sternly. 
The agitator had stood leaning slightly forward, 
his lips a little parted, his eyes always on the Leslie 
woman. Little beads of moisture stood out on his 
forehead. He was making a terrific effort to remem- 
ber— a conscious, directed, systematic effort into 
which he threw all his strength. If a real curtain 
had hung behind him, he could have put out his hand 
and torn it apart. He wondered in a dizzy, whirling 
way why he could not make his brain obey him in 


the same manner, compel it to go through the cur- 
tain of darkness that hid his past from him. 

The plash of the fountain in the court and the 
singing of the thousands came through the open win- 
"Go on!" Edith urged Mary again. 
"And afterward we came back," the slow, flat 
voice went on. She indicated Simpson. "He ran 
against him in some charity house somewhere in the 
West and recognized him — but Jack Garland, Mr. 
Smith, couldn't recognize anybody. He'd lost his 
memory. Then Simpson — you people call him 
Simpson — lost sight of him until we happened to 
come to Washington. And they--they offered us 
money to do — what we did do. I think he — Simpson 
— fixed it up, and they accepted it." 

"Garland — Charlie's place — Virginia," Smith re- 
peated the words, oblivious to the presence of others. 
They could see how he searched the chambers of his 
mind, how he tried to overleap the things that shut 
off the corridors of his memory. His whole body was 
tensed, like that of a man about to spring forward. 
His clenched hands were thrust hard against his 
thighs. He looked always at the Leslie woman. "I 
don't — I can't remember," he said. 

At last she raised her eyes to meet his. 

"You used to talk a lot about your home," she 
said. "You used to say lovely things." Her un- 


measured bitterness twisted her Jips again. "You 
tcid me onee that my hair was blacker than a night 
unshot by a single star. And you used to : .Ik about 
wiien your mother died. " 

"My mother is dead.'" he asked, dt .e.i. He w vs 
lettmg each idea that she gave him pla- ^. itl: 11 its 
possible force on his mentality. 

"And about the perfume of the roses-the red 

Whether she had wi. .ed it or not, she was governed 
by a desire to help him. The suffering that drew him 
up to h,s tiptoes and held him trembling before her 
was irresistible. 

" You were dotty about flowers. You used to tell 
us about a field you loved. You said you loved it in 
the spring. You said in the spring it was nothing 
but green velvet crusted with dandelion gold You 
said that the morning you left us in Charlie's place 
You said you wanted to go back and walk barefooted 
through the powdered gold. You said you had done 
that when you were a barefooted boy." 

"Ah!" The agitator made the exclamation a 
note of anguish that was terrible to hear. 

They-the Leslie woman and the others-watched 
him. He crouched farther forward, his eyes closed. 
His right arm shot out from his side at righ^ angles 
to his body, the palm of his hand out and the fingers 
open as if he tried to lean on something. His left 


arm went up slowly, crooked, and hid his face. For 
a long moment he kept that position. Then, very 
slowly, he lifted his head, a fraction of an inch at a 
time, until only his forehead and his eyes, open now. 
were visible above the forearm that screened his face. 

There was in his eyes a look of wondei^wonder 
which just escaped being fear. 

"I think," he said hoarsely, "I think I shall see." 

He swept the circle of their faces with his glance. 
Edith's eyes caught his gaze and held it. 

"The barefoot boy!" he whispered, the wonder 
still in his eyes. "How clean he is— how marvel- 

He stood erect, his arms dropping to his sides, his 
ardent gaze still upon Edith. He smiled tenderly. 
And, suddenly, he stood before them again as they 
had known him, with all his power, all his strength, 
all the charm of his brilliant personality full upon 

Outside there was the sound of a hymn from a 
thousand throats. 

Edith put out both her hands, as if she prayed. 

"Ah!" she cried. "You remember! You re- 

He went to her in one swift step and took her hands. 
She could feel his tremendous elation vibrant in his 
fingers. His thought, his concern, was for her alone. 
She was very pale. 


"I do," he said, his voice clear and strong. For 

him, the others did not exist. "And I am glad I 

remember. Do— you— understand?" 
Her gaze clung to his. and a little colour, like the 

begmnings of a pink rose, came back to her face. 
He let her hands go, and turned to the Leslie 

wc nan, who sat staring un to him. 

"It's all right, Mary," he said gently. "You have 
been very kind— very kind." 
He turned again to Edith. 
^^ "There is," he said, caressing her with the words 
so much I have to tell you." 

They walked to the window and looked out at the 
fountain. The roar from the crowd was louder 
There was m it a new note, like exultation. 
The others left the room. 

"My soul ha^ come back to me," he said, taking 
both her hands in his. 
"And it is a beautiful soul, isn't it? " she whispered 
She leaned closer to him, so that he caught the 
fragrance of her hair. 

"There is nothing," he answered, drawing her 
closer still, "to keep me from you." 

The voice of the crowd could be mistaken no 
longer. The thousands were exulting! 

"And everything » she began, but did not fin- 

ish the sentence. 
CholliewoUie, jubilant, wild with joy, had flung 


open the door and catapulted himself into the 

"We've won! We've won!" he shouted. "They've 
run the white ribbon up the flagpole! Two thirds 
majority— and a lot to spare !" 

He stopped abruptly. 

"Say," he concluded a little lamely, "what's up?" 

The agitator smiled brilliantly. 

"Old fellow," he answered affectionately, "we've 
won both fights." 

Edith held out her hand. 

" Congratulate us," she invited. " We're going to 
take a trip. We want to find a field powdered with 
dandelion gold."